


Manifest Destiny

by KreweOfImp



Category: Supernatural
Genre: All Sexual Contact Between Dean and Cas is Enthusiastically Consensual, Angels are Dicks (Supernatural), Angst with a Happy Ending, Castiel (Supernatural) Whump, DCRB 2019, Dean Winchester Whump, Dean/Cas Reverse Bang, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Even When They're Outlaws And Not Actually Angels, Evil Michael (Supernatural), Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, It's surprisingly fluffy, M/M, Obsessed Michael, Of the non-gross variety for those of you with weak stomachs, Outlaws, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rape, Sexual Coercion, Smut, Torture, Wild West, art by oh-cassie, rival gangs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 03:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 49,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19123834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KreweOfImp/pseuds/KreweOfImp
Summary: The year is 1899.  The Wild West is in its dying days—but don’t tell that to the outlaws of Eastern Kansas.  The gangs are Winchester and Novak, and the feud is bitter and blood-soaked.The families were friendly once upon on a time, but that time is long gone, and when Michael Novak, the second-in-command to the Novaks, sees the opportunity to have Dean, golden boy and heir apparent to the Winchester gang at his mercy, he takes it.  They have history, Michael and Dean, and he’s been waiting on this opportunity for a long time.What Michael didn’t bank on was that his cousin Castiel, the Novak gang’s resident scapegoat and outcast, would have some sympathy for the prisoner—let alone start to like him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome! For those of you who are familiar with my stuff, welcome to a fic that in no way resembles pretty much any of it. I'm very proud of that; I stepped a long way outside of my comfort zone on this one and I feel great about how it came out. 
> 
> This fic took a village, y'all, and I have to take a minute to recognize them all. I had three spectacular betas on this, and you should also go read everything all three of them have ever written, cause they're magnificent authors in their own rights. So many thanks to [give_it_a_little_nudge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/give_it_a_little_nudge/pseuds/give_it_a_little_nudge), [A_Diamond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Diamond/pseuds/A_Diamond), and [Dangerousnotbroken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken). I adore you all. 
> 
> And most important by far, you're gonna need to be patient while I take a minute to gush about an absolutely amazing human I have had the privilege of working with over the last two months--my artist, [oh-cassie](https://oh-cassie.tumblr.com/). I overslept on claims day, and was absolutely devastated when I woke up--but I swear this was meant to be, cause one of my first choices somehow was still available. That was the beginning of a beautiful partnership. I hope very much that she enjoyed working with me as much as I did with her. She was a dream to partner with, and I am so excited for y'all to see and admire the gorgeous art embedded herein. 
> 
> I cannot tell you how delighted oh-cassie and I are to present to you our contribution to the 2019 Dean/Cas Reverse Bang, _Manifest Destiny._ We hope you enjoy!

 

**Tuesday, September 12, 1899  
Morning**

Dean croons softly as he swings his leg up and over Baby’s side, dropping lightly onto the ground and scaring up a small puff of dust.  The mare doesn’t really need the soothing; she’s rock-solid, at least as attuned to him as his little brother is (and a damn sight less moody to boot), but it’s habit, murmuring nonsense comfort and half-formed endearments to her.  It’s a bit of a running joke among the gang, but Dean pays no mind to the good-natured ribbing.

The horse doesn’t move a single inch, waiting patiently as Dean crouches, setting a hand to the ground and closing his eyes.  The vibrations are almost imperceptible, but they’re there, and when he bends further to place his ear to the ground, what he feels and hears confirms it.  The pounding of hoof-beats, well over a mile out but coming in hot.  He listens for a moment, feeling out the speed at which the vibrations increase.

“Alright,” he calls, keeping his voice as low as he can while still ensuring Jeb and Garth will both hear him from their spots around the clearing, tucked behind mounds of scrub brush just tall enough to conceal the men astride their horses.  He rises and slaps the dust off his hands onto his well-worn denim.  “‘bout ten horses, maybe two miles out, comin’ in fast, definitely headed this way.  Looks like our dates are arrivin’ shortly, gentlemen.  Ten minutes, maybe.”

There’s an appreciative snort from across the clearing where Jeb’s tucked, and an unsettlingly high-pitched giggle from where Garth’s concealed.  The kid would just be creepy if he weren’t so damn endearing, but you couldn’t help but love him, inappropriate hugs notwithstanding.

The clearing lapses back into silence as they all double check their weapons.  If this goes as intended, the only weapon fired will be a warning shot, aimed well above anywhere it could do any damage (they’re outlaws, sure, but that don’t mean they gotta be murderers, too) but in this business things go sideways too often to risk it.  Dean checks both his revolvers.  Clean, fully loaded, and good to go.  He hopes they’ll stay that way, but better safe than sorry.  His Pop has said it more than once to the gang as they saddle up to go out on a job: “We ain’t killers, boys, but we ain’t suicidal neither.  Your most important job is to make it back alive, and you do whatever it takes to make that happen.”

Second to making it back alive, the fortune in jewelry adorning the heiress inside the stagecoach that represents today’s challenge is Dean’s primary goal.  Dean doesn’t know all the details, just that she’s on her way to meet up with some man—husband?  Fiancé?—out somewhere in Colorado.  She’ll make it there just fine, health and virtue intact—nary a man on the Winchester gang as would hurt or dishonor a woman, and it won’t do her no harm to say farewell to some of her jewels.  They intend to offer no greater insult than theft and likely a healthy dose of fear (Dean can’t say as he likes scaring a woman neither, but there’s nothing for it.  Being chased across the plains in a stagecoach fleeing outlaws is frightening for a lady, no two ways about it), maybe a day’s delay in her travel as she recovers from the shock.

A hand against the earth again confirms that the coach is maybe a mile and a half out now.  They’re well out of its original route, which means Benny and the rest of the boys have done their job well, playing the part of the slightly inept and too-slow outlaws, when in fact they’re carefully herding the coach toward the spot where Dean, Jeb, and Garth lie in wait.

Dean has just stood and absently wiped his hand off on his jeans again when it happens.

The sound of a single gunshot is familiar, and Dean’s initial reaction is irritation rather than alarm.  He’s been telling Garth for weeks that his favorite revolver shoots too easy and needs recalibrating.  Dean’s just opened his mouth to make sure he’s okay, that he didn’t get his own foot or his mount when the gun went off, when he hears the thud of a body hitting the ground—and it don’t come from Garth’s direction.

“Dean?” Garth’s voice comes, uncharacteristically sharp and tense, “Was that you?”

“No,” Dean says, a frisson of ice skittering down his spine, “thought it was—” but he never does get the chance to tell Garth what he thought, because a second later, a form staggers drunkenly through the brush and into the clearing, right across from Dean.  It’s Jeb, and the rapidly spreading dark stain on his chest wasn’t no accidental shot, and it sure as shit wasn’t self-inflicted.

Jeb’s eyes are wide, focused on the blood soaking his shirt, and when they lift to meet Dean’s there’s a kind of puzzlement on his face that damn near breaks Dean’s heart.  He’s never been the brightest, Jeb, and even if he were, how do you explain to a man that he’s about to die?

In the end, it don’t matter that he doesn’t know what to say.  Jeb slumps forward onto his knees, then onto his face, and it’s over just like that.

The whole thing can’t have taken more than eight or nine seconds, despite how much time seems to have slowed, and Dean doesn’t have time to mourn his cousin yet.  Without half thinking about it, he swings easily back astride Baby.

“Garth, stay put,” he commands, “we gotta figure out where—” he doesn’t have time to finish the thought when the crack of another bullet breaks through the clearing, and this time Dean pinpoints it accurately, if only because the gun it comes from is moving closer, borne by its shooter, astride a huge brown stallion. 

Dean’s familiar with the horse, not to mention the rider, so it comes as no surprise when Garth shouts back, “Novaks, Dean!  Ambush!  Musta been lying in wait for us nearby—"

“You don’t say, Garth,” Dean grits out, swinging Baby around and drawing the first of his weapons. 

The stagecoach is still half a mile away, and Benny and the rest of the boys with it.  It’s just Garth and Dean against Michael fucking Novak and his crew.  Michael shoots off another round and Dean curses as Garth shouts in pain.  It’s not likely to be a fatal wound—Jeb didn’t even have time to make a sound, and Garth is cursing up a storm, or as close to actual cursing as he ever gets.  Despite whatever damage he’s taken, Garth’s shooting right back at the oncoming Novaks—behind Michael is a form that might be Uriel, and when Dean whips his head around he sees Bart and Malachi, closing in from the opposite direction.  A few others hang further back, motionless, seemingly trained on where the stagecoach will appear presently.  Dean makes the calculations in a fraction of a second, recognizing that while the Winchester crew laid an ambush for the coach, the accursed Novak gang laid an ambush for the Winchesters, and now they’re surrounded with back-up still a good two minutes out.

Dean curses, aiming for Michael and pulling the trigger once, twice, three times.  He’s a damn fine shot under good circumstances, but these ain’t that, and he watches as Michael swings Sword, his mount (and a stupid fuckin’ name it is for a horse, if you ask Dean) to the left.  Dean fires another two shots at him but before he sees whether they strike home, a bullet flies by courtesy of Uriel, close enough to his head that he can hear the whine, then skids across Baby’s flank, winging her and opening up a bleeding furrow that makes the poor mare scream and rear.  Dean, already leaning far to the left to avoid Uriel’s second bullet, feels the moment he loses control of his mount.  The best he can do is jerk his foot out of the stirrup as he goes down and try to fling himself wide so Baby doesn’t accidentally trample him, but it doesn’t leave him with enough time to try to curl inward.  He knows half a second before he hits the turf that he’s going headfirst.  His last thought before his head bounces off the dirt is that if this is where it ends, he hopes he breaks his neck rather than give a Novak the satisfaction of claiming the kill.

A starburst of pain explodes outward from the back of his head, and Dean knows nothing more.

* * *

The moment in which the bullet digs a shallow furrow in the otherwise flawless flank of Dean Winchester’s gorgeous mare is both gift and curse to Michael.  He watches the horse rear just as Dean slides sideways to duck beneath another of Uriel’s bullets, and although none of it can take more than a single second or at most two, time seems to crawl as Dean tumbles from the horse, the back of his head bouncing off the turf hard enough to make Michael flinch just a little in involuntary sympathy.  He’s out cold and that mare of his is off like a shot, pain and the loss of her rider making her panic.  There’s no telltale stain of blood spreading beneath Winchester’s head or trickling from his mouth or nose, and his head isn’t resting at an odd angle.  If Michael’s assessment is correct, he’s alive and mostly unharmed, merely knocked senseless by the fall.

He’s no sooner come to this conclusion than he sees Uriel cock his six-shooter to aim the final bullet in his gun at Winchester’s prone form.  He hasn’t come to a conscious decision before the word erupts in a bellow that freezes Uriel solid.  _“HOLD,”_ he tells his cousin, and Uriel holds.

“He’s alive,” Michael says, internally cursing himself for the weakness that’s leading him to make an unwise but irresistible decision on the fly.  “We’ll take him with us.”

“But—”

“Raphael was my brother,” he hisses, “this scum don’t deserve a quick and clean death.”  He probably ought to feel guilty that he’s using his murdered brother’s name as little more than an excuse to silence Uriel and get what he wants.

He doesn’t.

“Dismount, quick, get him up,” he says, then raises his voice enough that the men waiting on the stagecoach’s arrival can hear too, “change in plans, boys.  Our business here is done.”

No more than twenty seconds later, the limp—but steadily breathing—form of Dean Winchester is bundled across the front of his saddle like a sack of potatoes, and Michael, Uriel, Malachi, and the rest are pounding away, the dust cloud that indicates the approaching stagecoach still three hundred long yards away.  The Winchester gang members doing the herding won’t know what’s happened till they arrive in the clearing and find one man dead, another wounded, the third vanished with no more than a cloud of dust to show he was ever there at all.

Michael hopes they choke on it.

* * *

Dean Winchester has been a thorn in his side for near on a decade now, since right around the time the friendly acquaintance between the gangs exploded into a full-blown feud—one that would ultimately see untold gallons of blood spilled in its name.  It was the Winchester’s doing.  In their greed and determination to eliminate the competition, Dean’s father and uncle birthed this unending rivalry. 

Michael’s father had once boasted a good relationship with John Winchester, the patriarch of the Winchester gang.  They’d been friendly as young boys, and when their paths ultimately took them both into outlawry decades later they maintained a respectful acquaintance, even teaming up on occasion for jobs that required a little something extra.

Until.

It was a heist gone wrong—Michael’s father, his uncle Zachariah, John Winchester, and Bobby Singer, also of the Winchesters, had teamed up to knock over a bank, with the take to be split evenly between the two gangs.  More’n a decade later and Michael was still a little hazy on some of the details; in the aftermath of the heist, it hadn’t much seemed to matter exactly how it began, only how it ended—with his father dying ignominiously in a pool of his own blood on the ground outside the bank, Zachariah emptyhanded and barely fleeing with his own life. 

He had returned to camp shaking with rage and grief to tell a tale of betrayal:  The Winchesters had never intended to split anything, and had indeed invited the head and second-in-command of the Novak gang into the heist purely to serve as convenient scapegoats.  They’d sabotaged the Novaks’ horses’ tack, so in the crucial moments after fleeing the bank with the cash, the Winchesters could ride away, leaving the Novaks behind to face the music.  It was pure dumb luck that Zachariah’s cinch hadn’t been sliced cleanly through, allowing him to mount his horse and stay astride, while Michael’s father had tumbled off no more than two or three steps in as his saddle’s cinch split.  His horse kept going, and by the time Zachariah realized his brother wasn’t behind him, the shots had already rung out and the Novak Patriarch was crumpling to the ground.  Zachariah had no choice but to ride on alone with tears for his brother tracking through the grime on his face, as he told the gang some many hours later.

Winchester and Singer never made the agreed upon rendezvous at which they had planned to evenly split the take, though Zachariah had seen them leave the bank not far ahead of him and ride off together, howling with exhilarated laughter at their success.  It wasn’t until he’d waited a full hour past the expected time that it occurred to him to examine his own tack.  He’d discovered the incompletely slashed cinch then, and, remembering the sight of his brother’s saddle on the ground beside his fallen form, put two and two together.

He’d ridden back to camp, then, and gathered them all together.  Michael and his three brothers, Zachariah’s four sons, and the numerous more distant cousins.  He’d shown them the slash in his cinch, not quite complete but clearly no accident or natural wear and tear.  Today, he’d told them, the Winchesters had intended to cut the head off the Novak pack, leaving themselves free of any true competition in the area.  They’d only half succeeded, and instead of eliminating the competition, Zachariah had hollered at the gang that was now his alone, they’d created their own worst nightmare—one which wouldn’t rest until it had burned every last Winchester to the ground.  Michael, barely 23 himself, had roared his approval along with his brothers and the rest of the cousins.

Not six months later, a bullet of Zachariah’s that was meant for John Winchester had found a home in Mary Winchester’s gut, and she’d died in her husband’s arms with her two sons looking on.

No Novak had ever called a Winchester friend, or vice-versa, from that day to this (well—with one small exception, but they’d disowned Anna the day she ran off to the Winchester compound with the Winchester’s fosterling, one Charlene Bradbury.  Which betrayal was greater—that she’d pursued an unholy coupling with another woman, or that the other woman had been one of the Winchester gang—the Novaks never could seem to agree on).

Every Novak knows those stories, and all the many subsequent run-ins between gangs, backward and forward.

But nobody besides Michael and Dean Winchester (plus whoever he might have told, though Michael tries not to think about that) knows of another sort of run-in entirely that took place scarcely a week before Mary Winchester drew her last breath on a dusty street in the middle of Lawrence, Kansas.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thursday, April 24, 1890**

_Charles Novak hasn’t been gone half a year, and already the Novak gang feels like a very different place.  Gabriel leaves no more than ten days after their father goes in the ground, traveling east, intent on settling down and going straight.  He makes no offer to bring Michael with him, and Michael doesn’t ask.  They’ve never been particularly close, and he considers Gabriel’s departure a betrayal in its own right.  How dare he leave their father unavenged?_

_Lucifer only really cares about himself and always has—he’s no true confidante.  Raphael and Uriel, though first cousins, are more brothers to each other than Raphael has ever been to Michael.  No, with his mother many years dead and his father gone, the only person Michael feels any real closeness to is Zachariah himself.  He’s always had a soft spot for Michael, and he makes it clear before Pa’s body is even cold that Michael will be taking over the second-in-command spot, stepping into place as Zachariah’s lieutenant just as Zachariah was Chuck’s._

_But, Zachariah tells him, eyes narrowed a little and grave meaning infused into his voice, gang leadership needs to be above reproach.  They might play fast and loose with the law, but God’s laws, the ones that really matter, they take seriously._

_He doesn’t expand on what he means, and Michael doesn’t need him to.  Zachariah had seen as clearly as Chuck what limited attention Michael paid to the young women in town as he grew up.  How now and again, his eyes linger a little too long on the young men.  Chuck hadn’t said one way or the other, but Michael had always gotten the feeling that his father saw him clearly and accepted him for who he was.  Now, a few months later, he wonders whether he might’ve just been projecting what he wanted to believe onto the man.  Charles certainly hadn’t spoken up in Jophiel’s defense when Zachariah exiled his own son from the compound after he was caught in town with a stable-hand and locked in the stocks for half a day._

_The fact that Zachariah has his suspicions about Michael but isn’t throwing him out fills him with a sense of purpose.  He’s too important to the gang to be exiled, so no matter what unholy urges he has, he must set them aside for the good of his family.  He promises Zachariah that he understands, and resolves himself to keep his eyes to women only from now on (it’s not that he finds them completely uninteresting, it’s just that men are **more** interesting), and he does a good job of it.  Until today._

_It’s the mosey of bowlegs down the street that catches his eyes.  He’s in Dodge City picking up a mess of supplies they can’t find in the smaller towns nearer to the Novak compound, and it’s a feast for the senses.  He hasn’t been here more than a dozen times since his voice dropped, and each of those times he’d stolen opportunities to sneak away and indulge himself with company a little rougher than the painted whores in the brothels his brothers choose to patronize.  Maybe that’s why; he’s primed for it.  His body thinks that if he’s here, it’s time for a kind of fun he can only indulge in a place this size, where he can be anonymous._

_And it’s the bowlegs._

_And, perhaps, it’s the ass attached to the bowlegs on the man—though, really, with the fullness of his lips and the length of his eyelashes, he looks near young enough to be a boy and just a hair too feminine to be a man quite yet.  In a few years, with extra lines on his face, Michael thinks he might mature into a kind of masculinity beautiful enough to be devastating.  He’s already beautiful now, but there’s still a hint of softness to it._

_It doesn’t dim his appeal a whit._

_As it turns out, Michael’s right about what maturity will do to Dean Winchester’s face.  His gorgeous features will go from almost girly to ruggedly masculine in the course of a few short years.  It will only make him more infuriatingly attractive—but Michael doesn’t know that yet._

_The striking young man moseys past the saloon that Michael’s calling his temporary home base.  He’s gotten a room upstairs for tonight, with too many supplies to gather to do it all in one day, and several orders that require enough preparation to be picked up tomorrow.  Late afternoon is starting to melt into evening and the sun hovers a little further than midway between its zenith and the horizon.  Michael’s handing off his stallion to the stable boy outside the saloon when the sight of those bowlegs draws his attention.  His eyes slide up to the face and he damn near does a double take, because surely nobody is truly that ethereally beautiful.  A jarring word from the stable boy brings Michael’s attention back where it belongs, and he turns his face away with a stern internal word.  Beautiful or no, he’s not meant to be looking at any legs at all, except perhaps for those that reside beneath broad skirts._

_He might even have convinced himself of such if not for the fact that the owner of the bowlegs seems to have spotted him, too, in the moments before he draws his gaze away.  The eyes resting on Michael are bright green and shining in the afternoon sun, and the lips not far below them quirk just a bit in a smile so impish that Michael doesn’t know whether to grin a response or slap it off his face.  He finds that he wants to do both, and wonders which the boy might enjoy more._

_The stable lad picks this unfortunate moment to take Michael’s reins from him and lead his mount away.  Perhaps if he’d had his horse, it would’ve been okay.  He could’ve mounted up and rode away, far away, until the beautiful young man was long gone and it was safe._

_But that isn’t what is meant to be, apparently.  Instead, the boy turns, his gaze sweeping Michael from tip to toe with such clear suggestive appraisal it’s half a wonder he doesn’t get arrested on the spot._

_Or perhaps it’s not that he’s all that obvious, it’s just that this particular look is obvious to_ Michael. 

_Before he can concoct an escape plan, a way to avoid the rendezvous that somehow already feels inevitable, the boy is heading directly for him, no longer moseying but striding with great purpose.  Michael must have five years on this young man, but for a moment **he** feels young, inexperienced.  Like prey._

_That simply won’t do.  His ego won’t allow it, and so before the first word is spoken, Michael already has something to prove to this beauty._

_“Well hey there, cowpoke, ain’t seen you around these parts before,” the boy drawls, and his voice is deeper than Michael expected it to be.  A bit closer in, Michael can see that his face isn’t quite so unlined as it looked, though still unfairly delicate.  He mentally upgrades the boy from 17 to perhaps 20.  His pick-up line, for it can’t be anything else, is about as feeble as any Michael has heard, but it doesn’t matter worth a damn.  His face says it’s worked for him in the past, and Michael doesn’t doubt it for an instant._

_It’s going to work for him again today._

_“Michael.”  Michael tells him, running his gaze as brazenly as he dares over this boy—this man—suddenly finding he has no patience for the game, for dancing around each other, for chit chat._

_“Dean,” the man responds readily, and Michael nods once.  Dean sought him out voluntarily, with little doubt as to what he wants.  No reason to equivocate now._

_“I’ve a room upstairs,” Michael tells him, nodding at the saloon before them.  Dean flashes him a grin that makes Michael want to set up camp in one of his dimples and live there forever._

_He’s lusted for men before—oh, many times—but he can’t say as he’s ever wanted to keep one before._

_He has not yet gotten a single finger on Dean, but Michael already wants to keep him._

_“Lead the way,” Dean tells him, and Michael does._

_Much later, he will wish that it had occurred to him to ask for a last name rather than merely a first, but hindsight is 20/20 where desire is nearly blind._

__

* * *

_At least two hours and perhaps three have passed between that moment and this one, and Michael will have time to hate himself for his indulgence later.  For now, he is too well-satisfied to find the energy for it.  He lays on his back, Dean sprawled across his chest, not sleeping but drifting.  Michael runs a possessive hand down the young man’s (19, as it turns out, not 20, as he revealed during one of the brief moments in which Michael left his mouth unoccupied by either tongue or cock) back and over the curve of his ass, grazing his thumb down its cleft for the sheer joy of feeling the slick little knot of muscle, still slippery with oil and Michael’s seed.  Dean groans a little and arches his back in a way that invites all manner of debasement.  Michael would surely have taken that invitation, regardless of how many times he’d already spent himself at the body of this perfect specimen, if not for the gruff yell that comes from the street below through the open window across the room._

_“Dean!” The voice hollers, and then again, “Dean!”  And yet once more, only this time the bottom drops out of Michael’s stomach and his world at once.  “Dean Winchester!”_

_There’s no doubt, from the way that Dean’s head turns, that the voice is calling for him.  Michael hears the echo of a ghost, his father’s voice, in his head suddenly.  ‘You’ve never seen a beauty like Mary Winchester—nobody has.  Golden hair, green eyes, and the face of an angel,’ Charles had once told Michael after Michael overheard him tease John about his wife’s beauty._

_Dean Winchester, it seems, takes after his mother._

_Michael will never know what his face does in response to that last name, but it must be of note, because Dean Winchester is off his chest and across the room before Michael can even think to grab him or grope on the floor for his carelessly discarded holster.  He barely hears the growl come out of his own lips, the name sounding like a curse with the way he wraps his mouth around it.  “Winchester,” he hisses._

_He finds his holster remarkably quickly, but it does him no good, as he finds it empty.  The gun that ought to be in it, a gift from Charles Novak himself, is in the hand of Dean Winchester, barrel pointed squarely at Michael’s chest._

_“I thought your face looked familiar,” Dean Winchester says pleasantly.  “You’ve the look of Charles around the eyes.  Michael Novak, I take it?”_

_“Good guess,” Michael growls, fury flaring hotter than it already was at the sound of his father’s name in this pup’s mouth, the sight of his father’s gun in this pup’s hand.  He sits up, cursing himself for letting his guard down long enough to be taken by surprise like this.  “Well—might as well get it over with.  Just like a Winchester, to lure me here with the song of the devil, lead me into sin and then kill me with my own father’s gun.”_

_“First off,” Dean tells him, eyes darting between Michael and the floor as he locates his pants and starts to pull them on.  He stays far enough away that Michael would just end up wearing new holes if he tried to disarm Dean, “for someone who likes talking about the devil, I might point out that I’m not the one with a brother named Lucifer, and secondly, you eyed me up first, Mr. Song of the Devil.  It ain’t like I dragged your protesting carcass up here and had my way with you.  Thirdly, I ain’t got no designs on killin’ you unless you make me.  Fourth and finally, you can call what we just did sin.  I reckon you even believe it,” he says, and he actually pauses to chuckle, “but as far as me and mine are concerned, ain’t no sin in finding joy in the bodies the Lord gave us.”_

_“Men are not meant to—”_

_“Lie with a man as they lie with a woman?” Dean interrupts mockingly, his snort inelegant but somehow still oddly charming—which just stokes the fury already flowing through Michael’s veins.  “Don’t seem like you do a whole lot of lying with women unless I’m much mistaken, and anyway, seems to me as you and your kin are the worst kind of hypocrites.  Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not steal?  Ring any bells?  You wanna talk about sin but y’all pay no attention to the ten commandments.”_

**_“We_ ** _pay no—how dare you, you and your faithless, traitor pack of mongrels,” Michael says, voice shaking with loathing.  How dare Dean Winchester judge **him?** Dean Winchester, progeny of the man who as good as murdered Michael’s father?_

_“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, backing toward the window, his pants loose around his hips and his shirt slung over his shoulder, still training Michael’s own gun firmly on him.  “Was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Michael Novak,” Dean says, a lascivious grin on his face, “emphasis on the pleasure.  I’d offer to do it again sometime, but I don’t get the feelin’ as I’d be welcomed back.”_

_“You—you little—” Michael is so angry he finds himself losing the ability to construct sentences entirely.  He is made of fury, rage that threatens to boil his own skin clear off his skull.  He is incandescent with it, his loathing for Dean only eclipsed by how profoundly he despises himself in these moments, watching the glow of the setting sun light up Dean’s indescribably gorgeous eyes._

_Because sin or no, loathing or no, he wants Dean Winchester still.  Again.  Already.  Wants to drag him back down onto the bed and dig bruises into his hips.  Wants to replace the memory of his gentle, almost reverent touches with violent ones.  Wants to make Dean Winchester scream for him rather than moaning.  If it’s sin Dean wants to discuss, Michael will paint all manner of sins across his flesh.  He will make this man beg him to stop at least as desperately as he begged Michael to continue what feels like years but must be no more than an hour ago.  Just let him get his hands on Dean Winchester.  Michael would make him wish he was dead a thousand ways and a thousand times before letting him die._

**_No_** _, Michael tells himself, promises himself. **Not would.  Will**.  He _will _get his hands on Dean Winchester one day.  And he will repay him for this humiliation, just as soon as he gets the chance._

__

* * *

As it happens, that chance won’t come for the better part of a decade after Dean empties Michael’s bullets into his pocket, drops the gun onto the floor, climbs out the window and is gone—but Michael knows his moment when it arrives, and he seizes it with both hands.

Michael Novak rides hell for leather across the dusty earth, his prize jostling limply across his saddle.  Dean Winchester is, at long last, at his mercy.

He will not waste this opportunity.


	3. Chapter 3

**Tuesday, September 12, 1899  
Afternoon & Evening**

 

Dean has had many a headache in his day.  He can recognize them all.  He can tell a dehydration headache from a hangover headache (similar, but distinct), from a tension headache, from a migraine.  And he sure as shit knows the kind of headache a man gets when his head’s been bashed against something a good deal harder than it.  That is the kind of headache he awakens to today, and it’s a short trip from that awareness to the memory of the ambush, the fall from Baby.

His eyes squint open painfully, revealing an unfamiliar camp, and when he goes to lift his hands to the back of his head to check the damage, he finds that they’re chained behind him around back of a tree.

And that is how Dean Winchester discovers that while he may still be in Kansas, he ain’t in Winchester territory no more.

* * *

More than one man has wandered past the tree Dean finds himself chained to, and from the relieved sighs and sounds of liquid hitting dirt and scrub brush, it’s not hard for him to suss out why.  Just his fucking luck they decide to chain him up within hearing (and sniffing, more’s the pity) distance of their hastily picked latrine.  Most of the passersby barely spare him a glance, which is just fine by Dean.  Those who’ve taken greater note of him have delivered, at last count, three separate kicks—which ain’t ideal, but he’ll take it over the four globs of spittle, at least one of which harbored sticky, foul-smelling tobacco juice (He reminds himself to thank his father for tanning the skin half off his rear the first time he found Dean with a wad of chewing tobacco parked inside his cheek.  The state of the tobacco-spitter’s remaining teeth was almost bad enough to inspire nightmares).   Anyway, the point is, most of the men slouching by ain’t showing much interest in Dean, much less any real curiosity. 

Until now. 

The man who just abruptly halted his mosey toward the latrine and now stands above Dean doesn’t look angry or hateful or resentful.  It’s dark enough that Dean can’t make out his features too well, but the flicker of firelight to his left illuminates just enough for Dean to make out what can’t be anything but confusion.  Sure enough, seconds after Dean’s come to this conclusion, the man speaks.

“Wait, who are you?”

Dean stares just as blankly back at him.  Is this some kind of test?  It’s not like this isn’t common knowledge…?  “Dean…Winchester?” He says, as if it’s a question, which it goddamned well ain’t.  He may not know much about his circumstances, and he may not live a whole lot longer, but this one thing he’s damn sure of, so he says it again, with greater certainty.  “Dean.  Winchester.”

“Oh.”  The man says, “okay.”  He nods firmly, as if this clears everything up, starts to walk again, then stops after a few steps and backs up again, squinting at Dean in renewed confusion.  “Winchester as in…Winchester?”

“Um.  Yes?”  Dean ventures, because how the hell else do you respond to a question like that?

“I see,” says the other man, nodding again, and then continuing to nod as his eyes dart back and forth, like he’s trying to make two things fit together that have no business connecting.  He doesn’t appear to be successful, as a few seconds later he ventures again.  “And…you’re here…why?”

Dean blinks back, incredulous.  Is this some kind of joke?  He rattles his chains a little.  “Uh.  You tell me?”

The stranger frowns, squinting suspiciously at him as if there’s some kind of punchline in the offing.  When none comes, he steps around the tree, inspecting the chains fastening Dean to it, then steps back around to his front and squints some more.  “Hunh.  I’ll get back to you on that,” he says, sounding for all the world as if he actually means it, and strides off, back in the direction he came from.

Exactly what in an infinite number of tarnations, Dean wonders, was that about?

* * *

Zachariah looks up, startled, when Castiel of all people steps into the tent.  He generally don’t show up unless summoned, and then only warily, which Zachariah supposes is reasonable given his unofficial position in the gang.

“Castiel,” He says in surprise, raising a brow at his nephew.  He’s always been a bit of a black sheep.  As the illegitimate—and only—son of Zachariah’s youngest sister, he had a hard row to hoe to begin with, but he might have been pretty well accepted by the gang anyhow if he hadn’t been so damn odd.  He’s a Novak because he ain’t got a claim to any other name, but nobody forgot during his early years that he can’t really claim the name with the same authority that the rest of them do, as sons of Novak men.  Then, on top of everything else, his Ma died before he was out of short pants, which probably didn’t help the situation none. 

Zachariah supposes that he could’ve done more to stop it.  When Charles led the gang, he discouraged the worst of what Castiel faced from his cousins in childhood, gently chiding his children and nephews that sons weren’t to blame for the sins of their parents, but Zachariah’s never really felt the same.  Once he took over, he kept silent where his brother would’ve intervened, and pretty soon everyone got the message that it was open season on Castiel, by then in his late teens.  Then, more than half a decade ago, there was that incident that cemented his low rung in the totem pole, and even if Zachariah had wanted to intervene thereafter—which he didn’t—he couldn’t have done a whole lot to change things.

Honestly, Castiel would’ve long since been exiled if he weren’t so goddamn useful in matters of strategy—pretty much the only reason he ever finds himself summoned to Zachariah’s side. 

None of which explains what he’s doing here of his own volition now.

“There’s a Winchester,” Castiel says, and Zachariah stares at him.

“There are a number of Winchesters,” he says, his brow lifting higher still.

“Yeah, but there’s one here,” Castiel clarifies, and Zachariah lifts two fingers to rub his temple lightly.

“Can’t get anything past you,” Zachariah tells him dryly, but Castiel just watches him, not unaware of the insult, but apparently immune to it.  “Is there something you need?”

“I wondered what our aim was in having him here,” Castiel says, and Zachariah leans back, nodding a little.  That’s a reasonable question to ask, a question of strategy which is fairly Castiel’s domain and no doubt why he’s asking.  It also brings up some things Zachariah needs to get sorted with a few of the other men, anyhow. 

“Hold that thought,” He tells his nephew, and stands to poke his head out of the tent to holler.  “Michael!  Uriel!  Get your backsides in here, we gotta talk plans!”

A moment later, both of ‘em are tromping in, gathering around Zachariah while Castiel waits a little further back.  “You brought a Winchester into my camp,” Zachariah says sternly to Michael and Uriel.  “I sent you out to ambush them and kill as many as you could based on a solid tip from Christian Campbell, and instead I’m told you only killed one, wounded another and, I repeat, you brought a Winchester into my camp.”  Michael steps forward, shoulders squared, clearly taking responsibility for the decision. 

“We did,” he says.  “Raphael ain’t yet been in the ground a fortnight and I figure 60/40 chance it’s that particular Winchester that put him there.  When he was knocked out it seemed serendipity.  Why not bring him along and really draw out the suffering?  Not just his, you understand, but his kin as well, not knowing what happened to him or if he’s still alive.  Seemed crueler to let them keep hope alive for a bit before crushing it than just to leave them with a stack of bodies.”

Zachariah sits wordless for a moment, turning it over and over in his mind and finding that he very much likes the thought of John Winchester back at his compound, losing sleep over the fate of his eldest son.  He nods once, sharply.  “Risky, but I respect your efforts on behalf of your brother.  You made a good choice.  Now listen up, all of you.  Lucifer, Jonas, Malachi, and I are ridin’ out in the morning for the Crowley ranch.  Seems as he’s looking to round out his herd and is interested in hirin’ us to rustle some cattle.  Says he’s willing to pay dearly for it, but terms need discussing in person.  Latest we’ll be back is Monday mornin’, in time for Tuesday’s train job.”

“And Winchester?” Uriel asks, eyes narrowing a little.

“Well, the two of you—and whoever else fancies a go—should have a good four days in which to figure out some mighty creative ways to make a man suffer.  All’s I need in the end is a body to send back to those scumsuckers, time I get back.  One that’s recognizable as their golden boy, even if they gotta squint a little to see it.  Whatever happens in the meantime ain’t no nevermind to me.  Michael, encampment’s yours in the meantime.  Nobody goes too far afield except to send scouts into town as necessary, and for the love of God, keep eyes on that prisoner.  I don’t particularly care what you make of him but try and save the killin’ blow for me.  Clear?” 

“Clear, sir.” Michael says, face set seriously.

“Clear, Pop,” Uriel echoes, nodding.

“Clear, Uncle Zachariah,” Castiel adds, even though nobody was really asking him.

Zachariah rolls his eyes.  “Boy, how many times I gotta tell you to leave off with the Uncle Zachariah nonsense?  Boss or sir.”

“Yessir.  Can I go?”

“Actually, Castiel, just so happens I was going to call for you.  Got some strategy to bounce off of you about that train, since we likely won’t be back ‘til the day before the job.  Boys, you get on out of here and get dinner if you ain’t already.”

Uriel and Michael exit the tent.  There’s nothing more than the faintest clench of Castiel’s jaw as he nods assent to indicate his irritation that he ain’t dismissed yet, but Zachariah doesn’t particularly care what he wants.  He’ll have plenty of time to get dinner after they’ve talked plans—or not.  Ain’t like he’s at risk of starving.

“Alright, now,” Zachariah says, rising from his chair and tracing a line along the train tracks that cross the wide map of Eastern Kansas that’s tacked to his tent wall, “it’s like I told you before.  We’ve got it on good authority from your cousin Balthazar out in California that there’s a fortune in gold coming through on its way to some fancy New York Brokerage.  With a take like that, it’s bound to be well-guarded.  You said you thought if we went in right, we might be able to avoid bloodshed altogether.  Sounds crazy to me, but I’ll freely admit I don’t much fancy increasing the prices on most of our heads with more dead US marshals, so I’m open to bein’ convinced.  What did you have in mind?”

Castiel squares his shoulders, stepping up to the map and pointing at a particular spot about ten miles out of the train depot in town.  “So we start by coming at ‘em here…”

* * *

By the time Zachariah dismisses Castiel, it’s well after eight and he’s officially missed dinner.  Since nobody ever bothers to set aside extra for him, he has a stock of jerky he keeps in his tent, but there’s a chance if Cook ain’t set the boys to scrubbing pots yet, he might manage a cold bowl of whatever’s left over.  He’ll take that over yet another meal of jerky, so Cas heads for the cook tent, pleasantly surprised to find that not only is there still a little left in the bottom of Cook’s biggest soup pot, it ain’t even scorched despite being the dregs.  Cook glares at him but slops what there is into Castiel’s bowl.

Castiel makes sure to thank him respectfully, not that it ever seems to make a goddamned bit of difference to the distaste with which the ancient man looks at him, but that ain’t the point anyway.  The fellow may not like Castiel much, but he keeps him fed just the same, and Castiel figures he’s owed respect on that account alone.

Usually he does a better job of keeping an eye on his surroundings, given how many times this has happened, but tonight his mind is so taken up with thoughts of the train heist and his intent to get back to the prisoner and answer his questions as promised, that he ain’t paying the kind of attention he ought.  Turning the corner out of the cook tent, before he has a chance to take a single bite of his already meager supper, a shoulder slams into him hard, deliberately knocking the bowl out of his hands.  It lands face down, the soup soaking immediately into the dirt, and Castiel lifts his eyes to the nastily grinning face of Malachi. 

“Oops,” Malachi says, grin widening a little, and the watchers (as usual for this time of night, most of the men are gathered around the main campfire right outside the cook tent) roar with laughter at the sight. 

“You really oughta be more careful, Castiel,” Bart calls from his perch.

“Yeah,” Uriel chimes in, sneering a little, “Look at you, wasting Cook’s perfectly good food like that.”

“Better go get yourself a fresh bowl,” one of the younger boys, Asher, hollers, voice lit with mirth, “or—oh, no, was that the last of it?”

“Terrible shame,” Michael chimes in quietly, the mocking in his voice more subtle but still impossible to miss, “looks like you’ll have to make do with that stash of jerky you’ve always got hidin’ somewhere, food set aside like a little mouse.”  This mental picture seems to please the men, who break into gales of laughter once more.

Castiel doesn’t rise to the bait, no matter how plentiful it is.  He used to make that mistake a whole lot as a kid, and even more recently, back when things first got real bad about seven years back, but he rarely does, these days.  It only gets ten times worse when he gives them a reaction, so he’s mostly learned to hold his tongue and just keep moving.  Rather than respond, he reaches down, picks up the now empty bowl, and silently takes it across to the wash tub to rinse it clean and set it to dry.

He’ll worry about the jerky a bit later.  First, in the absence of real dinner, he might as well go fill in the prisoner like he promised.  Getting far away from the raucous laughter is just a bonus.


	4. Chapter 4

**Tuesday, September 12, 1899  
Night**

Based on the position of the moon and the way the camp has started to quiet down, Dean’s been alone for the better part of two hours before the odd man returns, which is surprising—not the two hours part, but that he returned at all.  After the initial kicks and spittle, the Novaks seem to be largely acting as though Dean is a warmer-than-usual saddlebag or a discarded water skin.  They’re aware of him, but largely indifferent.  Not this man, though.  Dean doesn’t seem to have a good read on what the hell he _is,_ but for some unknown reason, it’s clear that what he’s _not_ is indifferent. 

He strides up, planting himself directly in front of Dean.  The lantern he carries reveals strong features that are entirely unfamiliar.  Dean knows most of the Novak gang by sight, but not this one.  This one, he would remember, from his messy hair and firm jawline to his cleft chin and almost unnervingly blue eyes.  _Not now,_ he tells himself, because striking or no, unusual or no, the man is an enemy through and through, and Dean can’t let himself forget that.

“You’re here,” the man announces without preamble, “because there’s a long-standing feud between your gang and mine, and one of y’all killed Raphael not a fortnight ago.  Someone let slip to Zachariah that there was a stagecoach your gang was gonna knock over soon.  Charles—no, Chamberlain—or was it Christopher maybe?”

“Christian?” Dean demands, a long-standing suspicion sparking into robust life within his breast.

“Oh, yes, that was it.”  

The spark blossoms into a volcano of rage that overflows, and despite his better judgment, Dean finds himself cursing up one side of the camp and down the other, which is impressive considering that he’s chained too close to this tree to physically move more than three inches.  “GodDAMN I fuckin’ KNEW it, that turncoat bastard, that fuckin piece of shit, I been _tellin’_ Pop that we needed to watch him, that mess of putrid turkey vulture feed…”

The strange man listens politely while Dean rants for a good solid minute or two, and when Dean finally runs out of profanity with which to describe Christian, may his worthless cousin burn forever, he picks right back up where he left off as if nothing happened.

“Yes, and Michael and his crew were going to just kill as many of you as they could, but apparently you happened to be knocked out, so it seemed an even better blow to y’all to just take you along, kill you slowly and dump the body later.”  It occurs to Dean, nonsensically, that ‘y’all’ is the first real piece of slang he’s heard this man use, oddly.  Out here in the middle of God’s armpit and here this man and his stupidly blue eyes are, sounding like he belongs in a schoolhouse, even while he discusses Dean’s incipient slow and painful death. 

Even setting that aside, this little pow wow doesn’t seem to be any less mystifying than their last one.  Silence stretches out for a moment as the other man waits with apparent patience for Dean to respond.  Dean supposes if he were smart he’d be focusing on his own impending murder, but he’d already figured that was the way of it, and no sense dwelling on it unnecessarily if it’s inevitable anyway.  Anyway, what really is there to say about this weird series of pronouncements?

“Is…there a reason you’re telling me this?”  Dean finally comes up with, a little weakly, pretty sure whatever answer he gets is going to be ludicrous.

“Told you as I’d get back to you about why you were here,” the man explains, and sure enough. Dean rolls his eyes heavenward. 

“Ain’t telling me nothing I don’t already know, fella.” 

“Castiel.” 

“Bless you?”

“Not fella.  Castiel.  Novak.” 

“I guessed that part, seein’ as how you’re here and not chained up next to me, and I’ve been made to understand the Novak gang is real particular about being only…y’know.  Novaks.”

“Ah.  Yes.  Good point,” Castiel Novak allows, nodding seriously, and then they both fall silent.

By all rights, it ought to be an awkward silence.  Dean’s a prisoner bound for death, as this man has just confirmed, and Castiel here is—by default, if not by design—one of his captors.  Their eyes are locked tight, Dean’s chained to a tree, the sound of someone pissing in the nearby latrine floats over.

It really ought to be awkward—or at the very least, hostile.

It ain’t.

It is, however, charged.  There’s a familiar weight to the air between them, and if the situation weren’t what it is, Dean would swear he knows exactly the shape and meaning of that weight.  He’s felt it more than once, with more than one man—and a fair few of those times, it’s ultimately resulted in a few hasty, stolen moments tucked away in the back of a saloon or a deserted alley.  In the hot press of hands and mouths, sweat and saliva and other things mixing with the ever-present dust to leave them both sticky and smelling of sex and grime.

Yeah, Dean knows that charge in the air, and he’s so startled to find it here, with someone of this name (not, he briefly and dryly reflects, that it’s the first time he’s had sparks fly with a Novak, come to think of it), he can’t even dredge up the kind of brazen quip he’s known for in moments like these.  Unsurprisingly, given his demeanor thus far, it doesn’t seem Castiel Novak is known for that kind of flippancy himself (although Dean supposes it’s possible he’s taken just as off-guard by the heat that’s settled between them) and so the silence stretches out between them.  Who knows how long they might have remained like that; eyes locked, the flicker of the lantern painting both of their faces in an ever-changing glow, if the familiar shape of Bart Novak didn’t appear in the circle of lantern light, wiping his hands on his pants in a way that makes perfectly clear that he’s the erstwhile pisser. 

Charming.

Castiel seems to have the same thought, if the slight wrinkle to his nose is any indication.

“You on watch, Castiel?” Bart asks, narrowing his eyes a bit in a way that suggests mingling distaste and distrust, which seems a bit odd given that they’re members of the same gang, not to mention kin.  Castiel’s face, so expressive thus far, suddenly seems as if it might be etched from granite for all it gives away. 

There’s a kind of blankness that comes over a man’s face in the split second after he takes a mortal wound but before he feels it.  A total absence of anything.  Castiel Novak manages to rival that blankness.

“No, just passing by,” Castiel says, his voice near as blank as his face, stilted, and just like that Dean starts to see the shape of the Novak gang, and where Castiel fits—or doesn’t—into it.

Huh.

“Better be getting along, then,” Bart says, in a voice that only pretends friendliness and doesn’t bother to do so well.

“Bartholomew.”  Castiel says, tipping his head in a nod cold enough that Dean damn near feels a chill despite the stifling air.  And then, surprising both Bart and Dean, he turns his head enough to encompass Dean and tips another nod, this one unreadable.  “Winchester.”

Just like that, he’s gone into the darkness, taking the lantern with him.  Dean and Bart watch him and his circle of lantern-light bobbing into the distance for a moment before Bart turns back. 

“Raphael was like a brother to me,” Bart says in a voice that would almost be pleasant if it wasn’t so edged with incipient violence.  Dean shrugs, best he can with his hands chained at his back behind a tree.

“Benny’s like a brother to me.  Didn’t stop you plugging a pair of holes into him.  Pure dumb luck he made it through and Raphael didn’t.”  He really ought to stop there, but… “Maybe y’all just don’t breed as hardy as we do.”

“Always with the smart mouth,” Bart sneers.  “We’ll see how hardy you’re built tomorrow.  And the next day.  See how long it takes you to break, and how long after that it takes you to die.  I give you three days.  Michael bets he can get five out of you.”

Instead of waiting for a response, Bart turns with a nasty chuckle and strides off into the darkness, leaving Dean with that unsettling preview of things to come.

It takes a long time for him to drift off.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see endnotes for chapter-specific warnings.

**Wednesday, September 13, 1899  
Day**

Dean sleeps poorly, thanks to the combination of being chained in a position awkward enough that his arms are gradually transitioning past uncomfortable and into painful, and the anticipation of what the morning will bring.  It can’t be but an hour past dawn when the thunder of hooves startles him fully out of his doze into heart-pounding alertness.  He realizes almost immediately that the sound is just some of the Novak gang riding out—likely four, he estimates—and nothing to cause him any more alarm than the situation at large warrants.  It’s no use telling that to his galloping heart, though, and he resigns himself to making do with what little sleep he managed to grab.

He listens as the rest of the camp starts to stir, silently watching as several sleepy Novaks in turn stagger past to take a morning leak, the sound of them relieving themselves leaving Dean increasingly aware of his own straining bladder.  It ain’t like anyone bothered to offer him the use of the latrine after they got him chained up, but to be fair, they didn’t give him any water either, so at least he hasn’t pissed himself.

It’s a tough call which is becoming more bothersome—his thirst or his bladder.  He’s damn hungry, too, but that will hold if necessary.  A man can only go so long without water, though, and as miserable a way as dehydration is to go, somehow he doubts that’s all the Novaks have in store for him.  Another half hour or so and the scent of coffee is starting to permeate the camp, making Dean’s mouth water what little bit it’s got to offer.  He’s just about reached the point at which he’s ready to start yelling until someone remembers they’ve got a prisoner with normal bodily functions and needs when another figure appears around the back of a tent, headed purposefully for Dean.

Dean has to squint to make out his features with the rising sun at his back, but the figure resolves readily into the oddity that is Castiel Novak.

“It occurred to me,” he says as if picking up a conversation that was paused no more than a few moments before, “that there wasn’t anybody guarding you overnight, and since I didn’t see anyone come over in this direction with dinner yesterday, I don’t suppose as you’ve been fed or watered.”

Dean could kiss Castiel Novak, and not just because of the surprising fullness of his lightly chapped lips _(goddammit, Dean, not **now** ).  _“It so happens as you’re right,” Dean says wryly, “and I do hope you’re here to change that and not just to comment on it.”

“I am,” Castiel says seriously, and Dean wonders whether he really doesn’t understand sass and sarcasm or if he just mostly chooses to ignore it.  “Can’t offer much that’s real exciting, but I’ve got water and I’ve got jerky.”

“I’ll gladly take both,” Dean tells him, not inclined to be picky, “and I wouldn’t mind a trip to the latrine if you can swing that as well.”

“Afraid I ain’t got keys to your manacles.  Can you hold it a bit longer?  I can see about finding who’s holding onto those keys, but best to hold off ‘til we’ve got some food and water into you.”

Dean can read the underlying meaning easily.  Nobody sent Castiel here to feed and water Dean, he’s taken it upon himself to do so, and he thinks there’s a chance if he let anybody who made decisions around here know what he’s about, he’d not be allowed to do it.  Dean feels an unexpected rush of gratitude for the kindness, but rather than making a big deal of it, he holds Castiel’s eye just long enough to transmit his understanding of the situation and then nods once.  “I can wait.  Not long, mind, but long enough.”

Castiel nods in return, crouching in front of Dean and opening up a canteen that looks to be old.  He tips it to Dean’s lips, and the water is warm and a little gritty, but it might as well be ambrosia for how welcome it is.  Castiel holds it carefully, letting Dean take a few swallows, then pulling it back to let him breathe.  After a moment, Dean nods and Castiel lifts it again, giving him another drink before pulling out a strip of jerky and holding it out to where Dean can tear off a hunk with his teeth.

“I thank you,” Dean tells him after he’s done chewing, quirking his lips just a bit in what passes for a smile under such circumstances. Castiel nods once in acknowledgment, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly, then lifts the canteen again.

It’s strangely intimate, taking food and water from another man’s hand, even if the circumstances require it, and in between bites and sips, Dean feels something slot into place between them, a sort of easy familiarity that’s often much harder to come by between new acquaintances—let alone enemies, which is what they’re supposed to be.

He don’t have much time to ponder this, though, because he’s just finishing the final bite of jerky when Michael Novak strides into the clearing, grey-blue eyes narrowed upon Castiel and Dean.  Castiel stiffens almost imperceptibly, but rather than jumping up or acting as though he’s been caught in the act, simply nods a greeting, as if he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.  “Mornin,” he says calmly, and Michael pauses for a moment before nodding in what looks to be approval.

“Good thinking, Castiel.  I want this scum alert enough to feel everything we’re gonna do to him,” he says.  His voice is as casual as if he’s discussing the weather, but Dean isn’t fooled and he gets the distinct sense that Castiel isn’t either.  There’s a kind of avidity to his eyes that speaks of sadistic anticipation, of joy in the incipient pain he intends to cause.  Dean feels a prickle of dread skitter down his spine, but he’s got no intention of letting Michael Novak have the satisfaction of seeing it.

“Mighty kind of you, Michael,” Dean says with a rakish grin, “I’d hate to be a disappointing dance partner.”  There’s a double entendre there that’s dangerous, an implication that nobody but Michael will really understand, and it’s probably a mistake, because Dean sees in his eyes the recognition and the violent lust that comes in its wake—and it ain’t merely bloodlust.

“Not to worry, Winchester,” Michael says quietly, the promise in his voice enough to freeze Dean’s blood in his veins, “you won’t be.”

Castiel shifts slightly, reminding both Dean and Michael that he’s there as well, and Dean can see a flash of confusion on his face.  He sensed something, some measure of the history between them, even if he’s no idea what it means.  Michael’s expression goes blank, and a moment later Uriel strides into the clearing. 

“About time we got started, don’t you think?” he says jovially, and Michael turns to grin at him easily, reminding Dean for a moment of the handsome young man that he took to so readily a decade ago.

“I do indeed.  Let’s get him unchained and you and Castiel can take him to the latrine.  I don’t mind if he bleeds on me but I ain’t getting Winchester piss on my boots this early in the mornin’.”

Well, thank fuck for that, anyway.  Whatever else is to come, at least he won’t pee himself.

* * *

Michael watches as Dean Winchester is escorted out of sight, then turns, muttering a curse.  He needs to tread more carefully, guard his words and his face.  He’s lucky it was only Castiel who witnessed his brief loss of control.  Family he may be, but he’s a friend to none in the gang.  Michael himself made sure of that some seven years ago—not that Castiel was particularly well-liked to start.  He’s always been an odd one, and but for his strategic mind, highly useful for planning of raids and heists, he’d likely have been driven out of the gang back when Michael first caught him—well.  As it is, he’s been little more than a running joke since, if a useful one.  Truth be told, Michael doesn’t actually have a whole lot against Castiel.  Maybe even understands him better than most, but appearances must be kept up, so Michael joins in the casual abuse of Castiel along with the rest. 

As the gang’s pariah, Castiel has no confidante he can talk to about the odd moment he witnessed, and even if he tried, it ain’t like anyone would believe him.  Michael is the golden son of the Novak gang, Zachariah’s right hand man and heir to their little empire.

No, no harm was done here, but Michael must be more careful nevertheless.  It won’t do to have anyone else catch a glimpse of the heat between himself and Dean Winchester.

And there is indeed heat there.  A decade later and the chemistry remains, even if it’s gone dark and tainted with loathing and time.  Michael half convinced himself that when he saw the man again up close, he’d feel nothing, want nothing, but deep down he never really believed that.

And now?  Well, Dean is now nothing more than a dead man in waiting, here for the sole purpose of suffering before he dies, being made to pay for the loss of Raphael, for every drop of Novak blood spilled by a Winchester over the past decade.  Michael doesn’t suppose whatever he does to such a man—a sinner already in the eyes of God, and bound soon enough for his eternal judgment—will matter much.  In fact, he tells himself, lips curling just a little, it’s almost fitting that he use Winchester’s unnatural proclivities as a vehicle to punish him for his sins.

Somewhere way down deep, beyond the place in which he can lie to himself, Michael knows it’s all bullshit, just layers of stories he tells himself to excuse taking what he wants from Dean, what he has wanted since the moment he first saw him, golden-haired and green-eyed in the afternoon sun.

The fact that he will take by force what was once freely given will only make the conquest sweeter, when the time comes.

But not yet.  For now, he must bide his time—and find other ways to entertain himself with Dean.  Other ways to make him scream, to make him bleed.

It shouldn’t be too difficult.

* * *

All things considered, the morning’s been about as good as Dean could hope, and somewhat better than he expected.  His belly is full and his bladder is empty, and those are two points in his favor.

He’s pretty sure they’re the only ones he’s going to get, though.

As soon as he’s done at the latrine, Uriel escorts him back to the familiar clearing, after a sharp word to Castiel to be off and see to the horses.  The revolver pressed directly between Dean’s shoulder-blades is solid motivation to keep moving, and it’s not long before he finds himself standing face-to-face with Michael Novak for the first time in many long years.

He can see clear as day that Michael wants him, but nothing of that nature is likely to happen in the daylight with family gathered around, and there’s no point in borrowing from tonight’s worries when today has so many to offer all on its own.  Running for it isn’t an option—yesterday’s blow to the head still has him a little unsteady on his feet, and he’d not make it ten steps before he caught a bullet to the leg.  No, if he hopes to somehow find his way out of this situation, he’ll have to do so strategically, and now is not his moment.

“Well now,” Michael says, avoiding eye contact with Dean in favor of meeting Uriel’s gaze.

Interesting.  He doesn’t trust his own control—and he probably shouldn’t, after the look he was giving Dean just moments ago, “got any ideas as to how we might begin, cousin?”

“More’n a few, Michael,” Uriel says, and Dean doesn’t have to see his face to hear the malicious grin he’s sure adorns it.

“Then let’s get started.”

* * *

A quick shout from Michael brings Bart to the clearing, still yawning as he gulps coffee from his tin cup, and in moments they’ve got Dean bound to the wide wagon wheel.  They take turns with their fists, betting each other on who can get better noises from the prisoner, but Dean Winchester is no greenhorn and he ain’t yellow neither. 

Damn near an hour in, and the shadow of bruises are beginning to rise under the skin of his abdomen and on one cheekbone without anything more than a few grunts from Winchester.  Not that he’s been silent—far from it.

“That all you got?” he taunts Uriel, who responds with another punch to the gut.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were courting me with such a gentle hand,” he retorts to Bart, and gets a backhand that splits his lip in payment for his trouble.

To Michael, though—to Michael he says nothing at all, merely meets his eye with a sneer that says that, prisoner or no, beating or no, he still holds in his hands the power to destroy everything that Michael has worked for—and maybe he does.  If he were convincing enough, if that silver tongue were able to work its magic…

Michael can feel his jaw working as he stares back at Winchester, who has just caught his breath after a blow to the gut stole it away, and whose eyes seem to follow him wherever he goes in the clearing.

He can’t fuckin’ concentrate with Dean looking at him like that, like all of Michael’s worst sins are on the tip of his tongue and might come spilling off at any moment.

“Gag him,” he snaps, turning his back on Winchester to give the order to Uriel, “strip his shirt off him, and turn him around.  Bart, kindly go find me a horsewhip.  Time to try something a little different.”

* * *

Being beaten with fists is one thing.  It sucks, sure enough, but there’s honor to it.  Ain’t nothing honorable about having a filthy rag shoved into his mouth and tied in place.  For the first time, Dean fights them, struggling hard enough as they wrestle his shirt off him that it’s a miracle the thing don’t rip.  It does him no good in the end—fight though he may, his shirt is stripped from his back and he’s manhandled around, wrists tied at either end of the broad wagon wheel, spreading his bare back out like a goddamned meal for the Novaks.  He can hear Michael’s laughter in the background as he struggles, and knows well enough that he incited this.  He’s been taunting Michael wordlessly all morning, reminding the man of the damage he could do with a carefully placed word, and this is what he gets for it.

Still, he can’t bring himself to regret it.  There’s satisfaction in taking Michael Novak down a peg without a single word spoken, in reminding him that no matter what he pretends to be, Dean knows who he really is.  That Dean has seen the deepest pieces of him, the ones he shows to none, the ones he keeps well-hidden from even his blood.  That Dean _knows,_ and that with nothing to lose and death perhaps hours and no more than days away, maybe—just maybe—he’ll tell.

It’s not that Dean thinks there’s anything shameful in being the way Michael is—the way they both are.  He doesn’t.  He meant what he told Michael many years ago—there’s no shame in love, whatever form it takes.  No, the exception he takes to Michael Novak is to his self-righteousness, to his smug hypocrisy.  It matters little to Dean that Michael likely loathes himself most of all, hating himself for the way that he was made, and that he can’t make himself anything other than he is.  A man who both hates and rejects the deepest parts of himself can be a dangerous man indeed, and to one who is capable of revealing all?  Yes, Dean is in more than one kind of peril, and all of them bear Michael Novak’s name.

The single-tailed whip that Bartholomew comes back with is long enough to be wicked and short enough to be easily controlled, and somehow Dean isn’t particularly surprised when Michael himself steps up to take the whip from his cousin’s hand.

He vanishes behind Dean, and when the crack of the whip sounds mere moments later, Dean can’t help his flinch.

The anticipated pain doesn’t come, the whip cracking harmlessly in mid-air, shortly followed by a dark chuckle.

“Now that,” Michael says appreciatively, “is more like it.  Let’s begin.”

* * *

The first weal to appear across the tense muscles of Dean Winchester’s back is a thing of beauty, only enhanced by the harsh sound that the gag mostly muffles.  He can’t help but strike again, and then again, and then once more, Dean’s golden skin a canvas on which Michael can paint a record of his sins.

He’s breathing hard by the time the fall of the whip draws the first split in Dean’s skin, blood beading upward generously at the intersection of two weals.

Michael pauses to take a breath, to take a drink from the canteen Bart offers out to him, but he declines to hand over the whip when Uriel asks.  He and Bartholomew will have ample opportunity to draw Dean’s blood, but not like this.  This—this belongs to Michael alone. 

He slows down now, choosing the location of each lash carefully, varying the time between strokes so that Winchester never knows what’s coming, except by the sudden whistle of the lash through the air just before it hits home.

The rhythm of the sounds—the whistle, the crack, and the muffled grunt or groan or—one delightful time, something like a shout—is a symphony to Michael’s ears, a gorgeous piece of music he and Dean are composing together.  A call and answer of surpassing beauty, and Michael only manages to stop himself with the knowledge that he still has many days left in which to play.

Finally, when Dean’s back is a neat crosshatch of weals, blood dripping lazily from perhaps a dozen particularly brutal intersections, Michael steps back, carefully gathering the whip into a loop and hanging it on his belt.  There is sweat beaded on the back of Winchester’s neck.  If they were alone, Michael would lick it off and savor the salty taste of his pain.

As it is, he turns his back on the prisoner, smiling at Bart and Uriel.

“Bart, any fun ideas?  I do believe it’s your turn to choose.”

Bart grins slowly.  “Look at that blood.  You made him dirty, Michael.  Let’s give the poor fellow a bath.”

Michael laughs.

* * *

Castiel flinches yet again as the crack of the whip rings through the camp.  He knows intimately what that feels like.  Michael took just such a whip to Castiel’s back the day he found him with—

Another crack, and Cas twitches, grimacing in sympathy.  What they’re doing to Winchester isn’t right.  There’s no honor in torture, in the wanton causing of pain for its own sake.  Cas wouldn’t much like it even if he hated Winchester, and he—he doesn’t.  Winchester or no, there’s a kind of decency about Dean.  A straightforwardness in his words and his eyes that says if the situation was reversed, he wouldn’t be likely to do the same to a Novak who fell into his clutches. 

Castiel braces himself for the next one, holding his breath, then slowly letting it out when the crack doesn’t come.

Slowly, he creeps around the edge of the tent, sticking his head out just far enough to watch as they cut Dean down.  His knees are wobbly but the man keeps to his feet as they carelessly chain his hands behind his back, and Castiel feels the respect he’s already begun to feel for Dean grow.

It takes Cas a long moment to figure out what they’re about when they drag him toward to the horses’ water trough, but he’s spotted their aim long before they shove Dean’s head underwater for the first time, holding it there for long moments as he kicks and struggles.

He shouldn’t, he knows it, but by the time Dean’s head goes under for the fourth time, he’s halfway across the camp.

“Hey!” he yells, knowing immediately the angle he must take, charging forward despite the twin scowls on Bart and Uriel’s faces as they and Michael turn towards him.  “We don’t befoul that water for a reason.  The blood you’re spilling in there will go rancid in the heat and you’ll have colicky horses on your hands.”

Bart opens his mouth, but before he can start chewing out Castiel, Michael speaks up.  “You know, he’s a point, boys.  Though you’d do best to keep a civil tongue in your head, Castiel.  Remember who you’re speaking to.”

“Apologies,” Castiel says immediately, hanging his head as if in remorse.  He feels no such thing, but he’s learned what it takes to survive around here, and playing meek when the occasion calls for it is part of that. “Just worried about Sword.  You know how sensitive his stomach is.” 

“True enough,” Michael allows, yanking Dean’s head up and out of the water by the back of his hair.  The man has gone limp, and for a moment Castiel fears he might be dead, but a kick from Bart makes him stir feebly, and Cas exhales a silent breath.  “Anyway,” Michael says, “the day’s gotten away from us.  Bart, chain him to something.  I smell something good from the cook tent.”

Cas watches as they chain up Winchester and head off to get themselves some lunch.

It’s a damn miracle that worked.  Whatever meager drops of blood ended up in the water aren’t enough to cause the horses a bit of harm, but since he’s the one who gets stuck with the grunt work, which often includes horse care, they seem to assume he knows what he’s talking about.  To be fair, that’s often true, but in this case he invented wildly, going for the only thing he could think of to stay them before they drowned the man.

He may not be able to stop this in its entirety, but maybe if he’s very careful, if he’s very strategic indeed, he can temper the worst of the brutality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNING: Graphic (but not particularly gross or bloody) torture


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see endnotes for chapter-specific warnings.

**Wednesday, September 13, 1899  
Evening**

Hours later, Michael watches as Uriel and Bart cross the sprawling campsite again toward the cook tent, this time for dinner, leaving Michael and a marginally more battered Dean in their wake.  They didn’t even hesitate when Michael sent them on ahead, nary a suspicious look to be found, so he must have exercised adequate control throughout the day—and a herculean task it was.

Effort has borne reward, however, bringing him his first moment alone with Dean, and it’s time to get a few things straight.

 “In a moment,” Michael says pleasantly, “I’m going to remove that gag from your mouth, but first you’re going to listen very carefully.”

Dean scoffs from behind the rag, but he don’t exactly have much choice in the matter, so Michael ignores it.

“You and me got unfinished business,” Michael tells him, and this time he doesn’t trouble to keep the greed from his eyes when he skates them over the full length of Dean Winchester, “and I mean to finish it before I finish _you.”_

Dean makes a sound that can only be described as derision, and Michael chuckles, despite the stab of fiery rage that spikes through him.  “Now I imagine you’re thinking to yourself, ‘if Michael lays a hand on me I’ll just scream bloody murder and bring his kinfolk running,’ and you could do that, sure enough,” he agrees.  “But you won’t.  And I’m going to tell you why.”

* * *

“But you won’t,” Michael says, “and I’m going to tell you why.”

Dean had indeed been thinking that if Michael wanted to play things that way, he was underestimating the kind of fuss Dean was capable of kicking up.  Dean was betting that Michael wasn’t willing to risk half his family seeing the things he got up to in private, and gagging Dean during wouldn’t stop what he could tell the rest of them in the light of day. 

The smile on Michael’s face says clearly that he’s not worried at all, and that worries Dean more than a little.  “You won’t scream, and you won’t kick up a fuss, and you won’t say a single word about what we get up to in the dark.  You’re going to keep your peace, and you’re going to do everything I tell you to like a good boy, just like you did before.”  It’s true, much to Dean’s annoyance.  Michael was powerful and commanding and beautiful, and Dean had found it no trial at all to let him lead during their afternoon of debauchery so long ago.  Things have changed a good deal in the intervening decade, however, and Dean’s much mistaken if he’s inclined to follow Michael’s lead now—but Michael thinks he’s got some manner of leverage to instill obedience, else he wouldn’t sound so confident.  Eyes narrowed, Dean listens as he goes on.  “You’ll be a good boy and you’ll do it for three reasons.  The first is that, between your word and mine, who do you suppose they’re likely to believe?  I’ll give you a hint, boy.  It ain’t you.”

Okay, that may be true, but if he can sow even a seed of doubt that will flower long after he’s dead, it’s worth whatever trouble it brings down on his head before he dies.  He shrugs, eloquently telling Michael that he doesn’t find this reason particularly compelling, and Michael tosses back his head and laughs quietly.  “Yeah, I didn’t suppose as that would sway you much, but you ain’t heard reasons two and three yet.”  Dean raises a brow, aiming to convey his skepticism that Michael’s got anything better up his sleeve.  What’s he going to threaten?  Torture?  Been there, done that, and he knows damn well they’re going to do more of it before they’re through.  Rape?  He’s already planning on that.  Death?  That’s on the agenda, too.  Michael can’t do a damn thing to him that he’s not already planning on either way.  “Those reasons,” Michael goes on, a knowing smile suggesting that he’s well aware of what Dean’s thinking, “go by the names of Sam Winchester and Charlene Bradbury.”

Dean freezes.  Just what in the blue hell does Michael mean by that?

“Ah,” Michael says quietly, “got your attention there, didn’t I?  What I mean by that is this: if you breathe a word of anything that happened ten years ago, if you so much as _think_ about saying a damn thing about all the things I’m going to do to you, all the many, many things I’m going to make you do presently, I’m going to kill you just like we already planned, and then I’m going to make it my life’s work to get to your brother.  And when I do, I’m not going to kill him.  Oh, no.  He ain’t you, but he ain’t no trial to look at neither, and I bet that long hair would make a real good handle to hold him steady while I fuck his throat bloody.” 

Dean can feel his own throat vibrating, but it takes him a moment to realize the sound he is hearing is his own growl through the gag.  For the first time in hours, he’s straining at his bonds, wrists jerking at the manacles that have him bound once more to the same tree as last night.  “Keep making all that racket and you might miss what I’ve got to say next.  I wouldn’t do that; it’s important.”  Dean is still growling somewhere deep in his chest, but he stills, his eyes slits affixed on Michael Novak.  It’s one thing to capture Dean.  To beat him, even to take him by force.  It’s one thing to kill him. 

But not Sam.  Not Charlie.  Nobody fucking touches Sam or Charlie. 

“You say a word to my kinfolk, Dean,” Michael goes on, a pleased little smile on his face, “and everything I do to you before all is said and done, I’m gonna do to your little brother as soon as I’ve got my hands on him.  You’ll go to your grave knowing every indignity Sam Winchester is like to suffer, and that ain’t all.  You’ll recall that there was a third reason? 

“See now, I figure I need another insurance policy, seeing as how you may think that there ain’t much to fear here, that I won’t be able to get my hands on Sam.  Frankly, it may even be as you’re right, though I think you’re smart enough not to bet against me.  So let’s talk about little Charlene—what is it you call her?  Charlie?”

* * *

The sound of Dean’s growls is music to Michael’s ears.  He’s having more fun in these five minutes than he’s had all day long, because despite everything they did to the man today, this, right here, is the first time Michael’s really gotten the best of Dean Winchester, and they both know it.

“Anna misses her family.  I know she do, because she sends me letters.  Did you know that?  Every few months she sends me a letter.  Sweet Anna.  I ain’t never responded—she made her bed of depravity and she knew what she was giving up when she abandoned us to live in sin with your brat—but oh, I could.  I could send her a nice letter, tell her how badly she’s missed.  How much I’ve come to regret cutting her off.  I could make it sound damn good.  I could invite her to come home—just for a visit, mind.  Tell her to bring her lady friend along.  It might take months to convince her it was safe, that I meant it.  Might take years, even—but eventually, I’d get there.  I won’t even have to go looking for little Charlie, Anna will bring her right to my door, and you know what I’m gonna do with her when she gets here?” Rhetorical the question may be, what with Dean being gagged, but Michael is having too much fun not to pause as if for a response.  When none is forthcoming other than the ragged sound of Dean’s furious breathing, Michael goes on, his enjoyment clear in his tone.  “Nothing,” he tells Dean, relishing the man’s surprised blink.  “I won’t do a damn thing to her—but I _will_ hand her over to the rest of the men.  Let ‘em take turns.  They can pass her around for as long as they want, but I gotta tell you, some of ‘em ain’t welcome in the brothels anymore for how rough they’ve been with the girls.  Between you and me, I doubt she survives a week.  You ever seen anyone raped to death, Dean?  It ain’t pretty.”

He’s lying, of course.  Anna’s never sent a single letter.  The day she rode out of camp bound for the Winchester compound, she washed her hands of her family.  She hated it here and she hated every last one of them except maybe Castiel, but she’s always been self-contained enough that Michael’s betting it wouldn’t be hard to believe she’s harboring secret longing for her family that she just doesn’t speak of.  His bet seems to be paying off, too, because the wildness in Dean’s eyes, the rage and fear and desperation, speaks of a man that believes every word Michael is spinning for him.

He ought to, probably, because even if it wouldn’t be near as simple as he’s making it out to be, Michael means what he says about Charlie and Sam.  He’d see to it they paid for Dean’s loose lips, even if it took him years, and Dean can clearly read the sincerity in his voice, in his face.

“So you see,” Michael tells him with some measure of finality, “you’re going to be a real good boy for me, because if you are, I give you my word of honor that Samuel and Charlene are safe from me—at least in that way.  If they’re shootin’ at me, I’m damn sure gonna shoot back, but you can go to your grave knowing their fates will be a good deal kinder than yours.  We clear?”

There is a strained moment in which Michael is fairly sure Dean’s attempting to murder him with eyes alone, but as the seconds pass, he sees the knowledge that this is the best offer he’s likely to get settle into Dean’s gaze, and with it, resignation.  There’s still fury there, but resolve dawns alongside it, and just like that, Michael knows he has him.  Dean nods once, firmly, and Michael smiles.

“Excellent.  I’m going to take off your gag now, and the only thing I want to hear you say is ‘I’ll be good, Michael.’”

He crouches, then, leaning in close to Dean, close enough to smell sweat and just a hint of blood on him.  The man could likely use a real bath, but it smells like heaven to Michael.  The strip of fabric holding the gag in falls away as Michael slices through it, and Dean spits out the foul rag, dragging in the first deep breath he’s likely been able to get in hours.  Michael leans back, watching as Dean gulps in air for long moments. 

He waits.  He can be patient.  He’s done his part.  Dean will come to him.

Sure enough, a few moments later the familiar voice comes, unnaturally even despite the hint of rage that underlies it.  “I’ll be good, Michael,” Dean Winchester tells him.

Michael smiles.

Two minutes later, he strides across the camp toward the cook tent.  “Castiel!”  He bellows, unsurprised when the man appears moments later as if by magic, raising his brows in question.  The wretch is always lurking somewhere.  “Go feed and water the prisoner.  I’m going to get some dinner, then I’ll take the first watch.  I’ll wake you around two for the late watch.  He shouldn’t have been left unguarded last night.  He won’t be again.”

He doesn’t wait for acknowledgment.  Castiel will do as he’s told.

He always does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNING: Discussion of rape, though none actually takes place (yet).


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see endnotes for chapter-specific warnings.

**Wednesday, September 13, 1899  
Night**

Dean wants nothing more than to scream his fury to the sky in the moments after Michael strides away, a new bounce in his step.  The sheer horror of the things Michael threatened—the things he fully believes the man intends—overwhelms him.  Sam ain’t even really an outlaw!  He damn near made Pop’s head explode when he first announced he wanted to be a lawyer, but eventually Pop saw the sense in having legal counsel in the family, if they were gonna spend so much time skirting the law.  Pop came around and damned if there wasn’t a perfectly fine school of law right there in Lawrence, where they’d grown up.  Off Sam went, leaving the Winchester compound to live in town, and his education has proven damn useful ever since.

Sure enough, Sam carries a gun—he’s a Winchester, and he’s not stupid—but he ain’t had cause to use it, and he ain’t been on a job in years.  Threatening him is dirty pool, dirtier even than threatening Charlie, in some ways.  Woman she may be, but she’s as much outlaw as the rest of them.  She shoots just as straight, swears just as crassly, and rides better than any of the boys.  She’s also his little sister, if not by blood than in every other way that matters. 

She weren’t more than ten when her parents were taken by cholera.  There were more than a few wagon train orphans that ended up in Lawrence that year, but none tugged on Dean’s heartstrings the way the fiery-haired little girl had, tears on her face but her jaw set proudly, staring back unafraid into the faces of the men and women who came to find an orphaned child to help out around their farms.

She was too little to be a real draw for farm work, and that was what 16-year-old Dean had been sent to find.  A strapping young man to help Sam out with chores around the small farm Ma ran while Pop and Dean were off with…other endeavors.

Instead, he’d come home with this slip of a girl, her tiny back straight and proud.  Sam, tender-hearted from the first, had welcomed her readily despite the fact that he would still be expected to do the work of two when Pop and Dean were off on jobs.  Even Pop hadn’t been able to say a damn word against Charlie staying, once he’d met her.  She just worked her way into your heart too fast and too thorough.

And just like that, since that moment, if any persons on this planet could be said to hold Dean Winchester’s heart in their hands, it’s Sam and Charlie.  His little brother and sister, warring for the title of biggest pain in his ass, but also sharing the title of best-loved. 

So for Michael to threaten her and Sam—well, it chills Dean on more than one level.  It’s bad enough, the things he’s vowed to do to them if Dean doesn’t toe the line.  What’s really unsettling is how he knows exactly _who_ to threaten.  Dean’s second-in-command of the Winchester gang, same as Michael is for the Novaks, and he cares about every damn member of the family, whether blood or not.  But Michael didn’t threaten Garth or Benny.  He didn’t threaten Christian or even Gwen, and unlike Charlie, Gwen’s blood.  No, Michael went straight for Sam and Charlie, and that means he’s been keeping an eye on the gang and his ear to the ground.  It means he’s been keeping an eye on Dean specifically.  It means the gleam of obsession Dean’s pretty sure he spotted in Michael’s eye is the real thing.

Bad enough to be in the clutches of a twisted sadist.  Far worse to be in the hands of a twisted sadist who’s been intent on getting his hands back on you for ten long years, and Dean is pretty godsdamned sure that’s exactly where he now finds himself.

The shudder of horror that passes through Dean is, just this once, not for Sam or for Charlie.  It’s for Dean himself, and him alone.  For the first time in his captivity and, he vows, the last, he feels the prickle of moisture behind his eyes, and allows himself a single moment of weakness.  He hunches inward, as if the sheer act of making himself smaller could somehow protect against what is to come.

It won’t, though, and he knows it.

Nothing will.

* * *

It don’t take much time for Cas to fill his canteen—with cleaner water, this time, and since he’s under Michael’s orders now and don’t have to hide that he’s feeding the prisoner, he heads for the cook tent and gets in line with two bowls in his hand.  Cook gives him a suspicious glare, but when Michael, who just retrieved his own bowl, nods approval, the man slops a helping of tonight’s chili into each bowl without comment.

Castiel retires from the cook tent hastily, canteen slung over his shoulder and chili guarded carefully in each hand.  Wouldn’t do to end up with both knocked on the ground by some cousin in a foul mood, and while Michael might persuade Cook to give him another round to feed the prisoner, he knows damn well ain’t nobody would authorize Castiel himself to get a second helping, no matter where the first ended up.

Unlike last night, tonight he makes it across the campsite without interruption, finding Dean chained up right where Michael and the boys left him.  His head is bent, shoulders hunched, and he looks lost in his own thoughts, buried in some kind of internal struggle Castiel can’t imagine and probably shouldn’t try to.  The man’s been through hell today and his back, beaten raw, is bound tight up against the rough bark of a tree, his returned shirt likely little protection.  Frankly, it’s amazing he’s not a wailing mess, but it’s as Castiel suspected last night, even after exchanging only a few words with Dean Winchester: he’s a man of grit and guts, one worthy of respect.

Castiel means to give it to him, even if nobody else in this accursed family does the same.

He makes sure to clear his throat loudly and scuff his boots more than necessary, doing Dean the honor of announcing himself rather than risk startling him.  Surely there’ve been enough rotten surprises for the man for one day.  Likely enough for one lifetime, but Castiel is in no position to spare him at least a couple more that Michael and his crew will likely cook up before Dean’s race is run, even if he’s not got but a few more days to live.  He’s got no real power to change Dean Winchester’s fate, but he can see to it that at least someone treats him like a man in his final days.

At the sound of his throat clearing, Dean looks up, squinting.  His eyes are just a hair shinier than is strictly called for by the light, but Castiel pretends as he ain’t seen nothing.  The least the man’s entitled to is a moment alone in which he gives in to the considerable pain he must be in.

“Pleased to report that dinner’s a good deal more substantial than breakfast,” Castiel tells him without preamble, and Dean sniffs, then closes his eyes in bliss and swallows, his mouth no doubt watering.  “Hope you like chili, cause it’s all we’ve got.”

“Castiel, to be quite honest, I’m about hungry enough to have taken raw toads if that’s what you had on offer.  Nothing to get a man’s appetite up like a full day of torture.”  He offers a quick grin that falters just a little when Castiel scowls in return.  The scowl isn’t really for Dean, of course, but he doesn’t have any way to know that.  Castiel forces his face to soften.

“Speaking of, if I can get the key to your chains from Michael,” Dean twitches just a little at the mention of his name, and no wonder, after what the man’s put him through, “I’ll try to get your back cleaned up and tended to when I take second watch tonight.  Ain’t much I can do for it now, but this will maybe help,” he says, setting down the bowls of chili beside Dean and reaching into his pocket to pull out a narrow wedge of bark, stripped from a white willow tree not far outside camp.

Dean blinks at him, clearly bewildered, so Castiel explains.  “Willow bark.  Should ease the pain some for a few hours, and I’ll bring more tonight.  You chew on it.  Don’t taste so great, so I thought maybe you’d like to do that before dinner, then wash away the taste with Cook’s fine chili.”

Dean stares at Castiel for a long moment in silence, searching his face as if Castiel is a puzzle he’s trying to solve.  Castiel looks right back, steadily, waiting patiently for Dean to make a decision.  If he refuses the bark, Castiel will say no more about it.  It’s his choice, and the man has precious little say in what happens to him now.  The least Castiel can do is permit him this one.

“Sounds like a plan,” Dean says finally, nodding, and Castiel extends the bark out for him to take into his mouth, much as he did the jerky this morning. 

“Don’t swallow more of the bark itself than you can help,” Castiel cautions, “just spit it out once it’s all chewed up.”  Dean nods his understanding, accepting it and beginning to chew.  He makes a face as the bitter taste assaults him and Castiel winces in sympathy.  It really is foul, but Dean carries on gamely with no more than a grimace here or there.  Cas waits in silence as Dean chews it into a paste, then spits it to one side.  Kicking some dirt over what’s left of it—somehow, he doesn’t think Michael, Uriel, and Bart would much like him taking steps to ease the aftereffects of their torture—Castiel extends the canteen.  “Rinse,” he advises, and Dean nods, allowing Cas to tip some water into his mouth.  Dean swishes it around and then spits it back out, coughing a little.

“You weren’t kidding about the taste,” he says, and Cas nods solemnly before picking up the first bowl of chili and scooping up a bite.  He has to edge closer to offer it up to Dean, but he’s careful not to encroach more than he must into his space.  No doubt Dean has had his bodily sanctity violated more than enough times today; Castiel doesn’t mean to do so yet again, even inadvertently.

Dean groans in appreciation after the first bite, rolling his eyes upward in something resembling ecstasy, and the sound is so unexpectedly alluring that Castiel has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep his expression from betraying him.  There’s no doubt that Dean Winchester is a mighty fine-looking man, nor that the kind of strength he’s displayed is attractive in a way that goes beyond mere appearance, but while Castiel has certainly not forgotten that oddly charged moment between them last night, now is not the time for such thoughts.  He’s glad of his fight for control when Dean’s eyes open once more, zeroing onto Castiel with a kind of directness that is thrilling in its intensity.

“You’re being awful solicitous of a dead man,” Dean says suddenly, and the wariness Castiel saw in him when he looked at Michael or Uriel is nowhere to be found.  Instead there’s interest there, a keen effort to understand the puzzle that Castiel presents.

“You ain’t dead yet,” Castiel says shortly, “and anyway, outlawry for the sake of profit is one thing.  Wanton cruelty for its own sake is quite another.”

“I think if you asked your—what, cousins? Brothers?—they’d say that this wasn’t cruelty so much as revenge for Raphael.  Ishim too, come to that, though that was some time ago.”

“Cousins,” Castiel confirms, “and honorable revenge would be a quick, clean death, just like Raphael and Ishim both got.  They died at the wrong end of a gun after living on the right end of one.  They got the deaths they’d been courting all along, and it may be sad, but that don’t make it dishonorable.”

 _“May_ be sad?” Dean parries, one brow quirking in interest, but Castiel just shrugs wordlessly.  His own relationship with his cousins isn’t what’s at issue here.  “Noted, you ain’t planning to expand on that.  And sure enough I take your point on Raphael, I don’t deal out deaths as aren’t quick and clean, but—oh, fuck.”

He stops, suddenly, eyes flaring wide, as if can’t believe what he just said, and Castiel is pretty sure he knows why.  Michael and Uriel were never sure who pulled the trigger that did Raphael in, except that it was a Winchester, and Dean just as good as confirmed it was him.  It seems likely that Uriel at least would redouble his efforts if he knew that Dean himself was the one who put his best friend in the ground, and Dean just handed Castiel the kind of information that would likely earn him a good bit of favor in the eyes of his cousins—something he doesn’t often see.  “As I was saying,” he tells Dean deliberately, “ _whoever_ may have pulled the trigger on Raphael did it honorable.  Right through the heart, he was dead before he hit the dirt.  I can respect that kind of man, even if I’ve no earthly idea which member of your gang it was.”  Dean blinks at him, gaze moving quickly back and forth between Castiel’s eyes, as if once again trying to sort out a mystery that just don’t make a lick of sense.  It ain’t the first time Cas has seen such a look on a face turned toward him.  “Now how about we get the rest of your dinner into you?”

“I—yeah, let’s do that,” Dean says, one corner of his lips twitching up just a hair.  “Thank you, Castiel.”  It ain’t just the chili he’s being thanked for—hell, it ain’t mostly the chili, but Castiel just nods. 

“Don’t mention it,” he says, and lifts the next spoonful to Dean’s lips.

After the contents of Dean’s bowl are empty and he’s had several long drinks of water to wash it down with, Castiel finally reaches for his own bowl.  For the first time, Dean appears to notice that there was a second bowl, and he frowns in confusion until he sees Castiel lift the first bite to his own mouth.

“Let me get this straight,” he says, both brows raised, “All you were told to do was feed and water me (which, by the way, you did this morning without being told), and not only did you bring me something to help with the pain your own kin deliberately inflicted, you also waited to eat your dinner until you’d fed a prisoner?”

“An honorable man tends to the helpless before he helps himself—meaning no offense, of course.”

“None taken,” Dean says with a shrug, willing enough to accept that in the current circumstances he’s helpless, watching Castiel eat for a few minutes.  “You seem to have some very specific thoughts about honor,” he says after some time, and Castiel shrugs a bit, “ideas Mi—some of your kin don’t seem to share,” Dean adds in a low mutter, and there’s no argument to be had there, but something about the _way_ he says it, the way he changes directions midstream when he clearly meant to say Michael’s name—well, it sends Castiel’s scalp to prickling.

“My kin and I don’t agree on much,” Castiel says honestly, finding it oddly easy to be open with Dean in a way that he rarely is.  “Fact is, if you asked Michael,” he adds deliberately, “he’d say I’m the dishonorable one.”

“And why’s that?” Dean asks, interest piqued.

Castiel stares back down at his bowl, flushing just a little.  He may have gone overboard with that openness and nearly said some things he ought not.

“He just ain’t much a fan of the way I was made,” Castiel says after a moment’s pause, and Dean huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh, but a bitter one, and when Cas glances up, the look Dean sends him is piercing, as if he’s looking for something and also trying to say something without quite saying it.  What he does say is plenty cryptic, but Cas finds himself remembering again that moment of heat between them the previous evening.

“Seems like there’s plenty of that going around,” Dean says, “he don’t much like the way I was made neither.  Now, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Castiel, but in my experience there’s many a man who comes down hard in other men on what he don’t like in himself.”  There is a wealth of meaning, of weight to his tone.  He is trying to tell Castiel something.

Cas frowns a little, sure he can’t be understanding Dean right, sure that Dean is wrong, if the man’s implying what Cas thinks he’s implying.  “Sure enough as that’s true, but I don’t believe that’s the issue Michael has with me,” he says slowly.

Dean chuckles a little, darkly, and it sends a frisson of ice down Castiel’s spine.  “Stick around for the evening and you might just be surprised,” he mutters, low enough that Castiel’s pretty sure he must have misheard Dean.

“Pardon?” He says, leaning in closer, and Dean blinks suddenly, realization and something like terror crossing his face.

“Nothing,” Dean says hastily, his face closing down tight, “just…talkin’ to myself.  Thanks for dinner, Castiel, and for the willow bark.  My back ain’t hurting so much as it was.”

“You’re welcome,” Castiel tells him, frowning slightly, and when Dean sets his head back against the tree and closes his eyes, Castiel takes the dismissal for what it is.  He remains silent, letting Dean rest, but Castiel’s mind will not quiet.  He is missing something here.  He is missing something enormous, something that Dean seems to think he very nearly gave away, but the only thing Castiel can begin to gather from what was said is so far-fetched as to be ludicrous.

Bart and Uriel stroll back into the clearing ten silent minutes later, dismissing Castiel with a rude word as they unchain Dean to take him to the latrine.  Castiel leaves without a word to any of them, heading to the cook tent to drop off the empty bowls before he heads for his own tent on the outskirts of camp.  He wraps himself in his blankets—two o’clock will arrive all too soon, and even if he were to fall asleep immediately, he wouldn’t get near enough sleep—but something about that conversation won’t let him rest.  He tosses and turns for no more than twenty minutes before he is back up and into his clothes once more, moving silently through the camp and toward the out-of-the-way clearing that harbors the prisoner.

Something strange is going on, and Castiel means to find out what it is.

* * *

Michael takes his time, moving through the camp, making sure everything’s in order and buttoned down for the night.  He wants no interruptions this evening.  He’s waited ten long years for this moment, planning it, dreaming of it, imagining it late at night in his tent when he takes himself in hand.  No matter how much he told himself he would never get the chance to get the kind of vengeance he was owed for the insult done to him, no matter how many times he told himself he needed to forget about Dean Winchester as anything more than another unimportant member of the gang he loathes on principle, some part of Michael has been holding its breath in anticipation of this, now, and he means to savor it.

And if some part of him enjoys the thought of Dean sitting chained to that tree alone, knowing what’s to come and helpless to do anything but wait for it and imagine it, well, surely he’s earned that satisfaction.

It’s well past ten by the time the camp has fully settled for the night, according to Michael’s pocket watch (once his father’s, passed down to him not long before the man rode out for the job he’d never come back from), and he finally heads quietly toward the clearing that’s become the camp’s de facto jail.  He’s halfway there before it occurs to him that he’s already hard as a rock.  The mere thought of burying himself in Dean Winchester again has him more worked up than he’s been in months—maybe years, and wouldn’t it just be a waste (and even more importantly, an embarrassment, unacceptable for a man who has endured quite enough humiliation at Dean’s hands) if he shot off within seconds?

It’s been close to two decades since Michael was so desperate for relief that he sought pleasure in his own hand anywhere but in his own cabin back at the compound, or his own tent in further flung camps.  It’s been nearly that long since he did so with the kind of urgency that has him nearly tearing his own pants open as he retreats into the narrow, shadowed gap between the empty cook tent and the scrub brush it backs up to.  Sure enough, once he gets a hand wrapped around himself he can feel how close to the edge he’s already hovering.  Biting his lip to keep himself silent, Michael closes his eyes to let the image of Dean Winchester’s face, eyes raging and mouth stretched around a gag, fill his mind.  It can’t take more than two minutes of imagining how fine that mouth looks stretched around Michael himself before he’s spilling into his own hand.

He wipes his hand off on a patch of grass, then steals a rag from the cook tent to remove the last bit of stickiness from his fingers before folding it and tucking it into his pocket after a moment’s thought.  Might as well hang onto it for clean-up later on.  No sense in leaving any evidence behind.  He feels confident that Winchester will be a good boy and keep his counsel, given the motivation Michael’s provided, but best not to tempt fate regardless.

Then, tucking himself back into his pants, Michael turns back toward the clearing-turned-prison, newly confident in his ability to really make this last.

He’ll draw his pleasure from Dean Winchester this night, but Dean will have to work for it, and that’s just as it should be.

It’s going to be a good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER-WARNINGS: Discussion of rape


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see endnotes for chapter-specific warnings AND HEED THEM.

It’s been more than an hour since Castiel slunk back across the camp to park himself deep in a mess of scrub brush overlooking Dean’s clearing.  It feels ridiculous to be literally disguising himself as foliage to spy on what’s likely to be a real dull night, especially when he’s gotta be awake in scarcely more than three hours, but Castiel’s gut just won’t let him leave, and he’s learned to trust its guidance.

Dean’s alone in the clearing, and the rising moon, nearly full, casts just about enough light for Castiel to see him fairly clearly.  His eyes are closed, for the most part, as if he too is trying to rest, but every rustle of breeze through the leaves or creak of a settling tent has his eyes snapping open with a quickness that says he’s no more successful in this endeavor than Castiel was when he tried to catch some shut-eye. 

He shifts often within the limits of his bindings, unable to find a position he’s willing to stay in long.  It’d be no surprise given the wounds he’s sporting, but somehow his restlessness doesn’t just have the look of pain about it.  If Castiel had to guess, he’d say what’s driving Dean is the kind of anticipatory dread Castiel is all too familiar with. 

That, too, wouldn’t be so unusual.  He’s been tortured and he knows damn well there’s more to come, not to mention death stalking him from the shadows, but that don’t exactly track neither.  He was facing the same things last night, and he wasn’t near this worked up from what Castiel saw during their brief interactions.

There’s something just _not right_ here, and whatever it is feels like it’s slipping through Castiel’s fingers every time he nearly gets a hold of it.

So far, other than Dean’s jumpiness, a whole lot of nothing’s happened.  Michael ain’t even returned to take first watch yet, which Castiel supposes is odd enough, what with his insistence earlier that Dean needed guarding, but the man does have a whole mess of other responsibilities, especially with Zachariah gone. 

Come to that, once he thinks on it, Castiel supposes it’s right strange that Michael offered to take any watch at all, no matter how prized Dean is as a prisoner.  It’s the kind of task that generally gets left to lesser gang members—the younger men and of course, Castiel himself, who’s never allowed to forget that he ranks pretty much dead last in the hierarchy.

He’s puzzling this over, adding it to everything else that was said—and went unsaid—by Dean earlier, adding it to Dean’s current twitchiness, and he don’t much like the conclusions that seem to present themselves to him. 

Castiel has just about convinced himself to get up and go have another word with Dean Winchester, a far more direct one than earlier.  There’s a question needs asking and he sure as hell won’t be bringing it to Michael, which means Dean’s the only one who can answer it.  His skittishness earlier makes Castiel wonder whether he’ll even answer a direct question, but Cas can’t exactly make up his mind what to do about a problem that may or may not exist (he sets aside for the moment that if by some chance the monstrous shape he thinks he sees the shadow of is real, he ain’t really got the power to do much).  There’s nothing for it but to ask, and—

Castiel ain’t but shifted half an inch with the intent to get up when Dean suddenly goes preternaturally still, lifting his head and freezing solid with his eyes trained on a spot just beyond the clearing.  Castiel can’t see what he’s looking at, but it don’t matter none because it’s only a few seconds before Michael comes prowling right past Castiel’s hiding place.

He moves slow, steady, and sinuous, a fluidity to his motions that’s unnerving for reasons Castiel can’t put his finger on until he realizes that it reminds him of nothing so much as a hunting bobcat he once saw.  Michael is winding up to strike, but he tortured Dean all day long, and this approach bears no similarity to anything Castiel has seen from him before—except maybe that quick and easily dismissed flash in his eyes this morning.

Michael hasn’t spoken a single word yet, but certainty is crashing down on Castiel like the waves of the ocean he’s only heard about and ain’t never seen.  Somehow, Dean isn’t the only one bound motionless as Michael nears Dean.  No manacles bind Castiel, but he seems to have lost the ability to do anything but breathe, and that only shallowly.

Michael’s voice is pitched low enough to be inaudible to anyone in the nearest tents or even the latrine, but Castiel is nearer still than that, and he hears every word clear as day.

“Tell me again how you’re going to behave for me,” Michael says, and proximity combined with the glow of silver moonlight makes it easy for Castiel to see the way the corner of his lips curls upward just slightly as he gazes down at Dean.  They’re both in perfect silhouette, so Castiel can see what Michael can’t—the way Dean’s fingers curl inward, his hands tightening slowly to pointless fists, still manacled behind the tree.  There is a beat of silence, and then Michael is on him with the speed of a striking snake, crouched close, fingers lacing through Dean’s hair and jerking his head back.  “If you’d like,” Michael murmurs, leaning in to let his breath ghost against Dean’s cheek, “I can remind you—in great detail—exactly _why_ you made that promise, boy.”

Castiel watches as Dean’s fingers slowly uncurl with what looks like monumental effort.  It must take even greater effort for him to force out the words, because they sound like they’ve been ground raw before emerging.  “I’ll be good, Michael,” he says, and though he’s clearly aiming for a monotone, he can’t quite conceal the tempest of emotion behind it.  There is loathing there, Castiel thinks, and fear, plus a bone-deep disgust that mirrors what Castiel finds has blossomed in his own gut.

Michael chuckles, the sound smooth and steady in a way that might be soothing, even infectious, in other circumstances.  Here and now, it freezes Castiel’s blood just a little more.

 _How,_ he asks himself, _can this be?  Michael, of all people?_

He has no answers.  He has nothing at all, he can do nothing at all, as Michael leans back enough to search Dean’s face.  “I’m going to unshackle you now,” he tells Dean, “because the way Bart and Uriel got you chained up ain’t currently convenient for me.  Now, you may be inclined to go back on your word, so I want to be clear that if you so much as think about trying to fight, trying to flee, I will put a bullet through each of your knees and _then_ make you kneel for me.  Ain’t a man in this camp would say a word against me shooting a prisoner as tried to flee, and they’d all get back to bed with due haste once I explained that you tried to run when I let you out to use the latrine.  Clear?”

“Clear,” Dean says tonelessly, and Michael laughs just a little.

 “You know,” he says, “I think a bit more respect is due me, boy.  Let’s try ‘clear, sir,’”

Again, Castiel is reminded of the stalking cat, as Michael nearly purrs the last few words, releasing Dean’s hair to lean back and meet his eyes. 

There is another pause, and Castiel doesn’t know what to hope for, that Dean will defy him, will spit in his face, or that he will do as he’s told and not invite the violence simmering so closely under Michael’s skin.  “Clear, sir,” Dean Winchester says, and the set of his jaw shows clear as day how much it costs him to do so.

“Good boy.  Now, when I unshackle you, you’re gonna stand up, and move away from the tree—no more’n a foot or two, mind, and you’re gonna put your hands right back behind your back, and you’re gonna stand there,” Michael murmurs, moving around to the back of the tree, and then comes the sound of clanking as he unlocks the manacles.  Dean sits in place for the count of three even once his wrists are unfastened, and Castiel can see what Michael can’t—the moment in which Dean closes his eyes, swallows hard, and steels himself to do no more than he’s told.

He rises slowly, telegraphing his movements so Michael doesn’t spook and shoot him, because sure enough, as soon as he’s got the shackles undone, Michael has his gun out and aimed directly at Dean’s knee, coming around the tree to stand at Dean’s back.  Dean stands, and Castiel can see how shallow and quick his breaths are coming, as if it’s a bigger strain to stand motionless than it would be to run as fast as he could.

It probably is.

Michael doesn’t leave Dean like that for long, no doubt not wanting to test his control.  Dean Winchester is a dangerous man under the best of circumstances.  Probably doubly so, cornered and injured.  It can’t be more than fifteen seconds after Dean’s shackles were first unlocked that Michael is locking them right back up, shortening the chain between them considerably and leaving Dean’s wrists crossed tightly at his back.  He pauses then to reholster his gun, leaning forward to whisper something Castiel can’t make out into Dean’s ear.  His hands slide up Dean’s arms, tender and reverent as a lover’s touch, and Castiel has to choke back the taste of bile in his throat. 

Michael comes around to Dean’s front, then, and when he wraps his hand around the back of Dean’s neck, Castiel feels his own slight recoil as Michael tilts Dean’s head just so.  He can’t possibly be intending to—

“Like you mean it, Dean,” Michael murmurs with a ghost of a smile, and then he actually does it.  He kisses Dean, hard and what looks to be deep, parting the man’s lips with his tongue.  A silent breath shudders out of Castiel, and he watches the visible battle for control in Dean’s body language.  It’s taking everything the man has to submit without complaint or fight.  The kiss goes on what feels like forever but is likely no more than thirty seconds, and then Michael recoils, swearing, and there’s a hint of blood on his lip and a whisper of a smile on Dean’s face for half a heartbeat. 

“Sorry,” Dean says, “accidentally caught your lip there with my tooth.  Ought to take care, putting things that belong to you in other men’s mouths.”

Castiel feels a tiny answering grin on his own face, but it’s wiped off just as quick with the look on Michael’s.  He doesn’t look angry.  No, he looks amused, almost indulgent, and a moment later he’s reaching into the holster which usually holds his second gun.

That ain’t what he pulls out, though.

What he pulls out is a set of pliers, wicked and long and easily recognizable as those Cook, who occasionally doubles as dentist for the camp, uses for rotten teeth that need pulling.

“I thought we might have this problem.  ‘s why I started with my tongue and not other parts,” Michael tells him, voice airy as his free hand reaches out to ruffle Dean’s hair fondly, “so I’ll make you another bargain.  You keep your teeth well out of the way, and I won’t have to use this.”  Dean swallows again, the mirth wiped off his face, and Michael goes on, the glimmer of cruel promise in his eyes.  “Get your teeth anywhere near me again, and I will pull every last goddamned one of them out, and then I will fuck your raw and bleeding mouth.  And just in case you’re thinking you won’t leave me anything left to do that with, rest assured that I will use my gun to do it if I need to, right before I give you a mouthful of salt and put that gag back in.  You will suffer in ways you didn’t know you were capable of.  You will die in the kind of pain no man should ever experience, and then?  Then I’m gonna go find Sam and Charlie.  The boys will take care of little Charlie for me, but I’ll see to Sam myself, and if I ain’t got the equipment left to use, well, I still have two guns, and even an unloaded one can ruin an ass as fine as his.”

Dean has gone pale, the already silver glow of the moonlight making him look nearly translucent with it.  He wavers just a little on his feet, and Michael’s hand wraps around his upper arm to steady him, gaze never deviating from Dean’s. 

Michael Novak means every word he says, clear as day, and it takes Castiel a moment to realize that the almost imperceptible rustle of leaves around him isn’t from the breeze, it’s because a fine tremor has broken out in him.  He forces himself to stillness, knowing with absolute certainty that if he’s discovered Michael will kill him without a second’s pause.

Castiel has known Michael for his entire life, and only once before has he caught a glimpse of this kind of wanton cruelty in him.  He thought at the time it was his own actions that brought out a wild kind of brutality in a generally controlled man, but it’s clear now that this has always been there, bubbling under Michael’s calm, even genial surface.

It takes, Castiel reflects, a kind of maniacal, horrifying courage to fully plan to put your cock somewhere it ain’t wanted that’s also lined with teeth, no matter how many threats you’ve doled out.  It’s Michael’s clear intention to do just that, as much as the rest that he’s witnessed that convinces Castiel that Michael is a full-on lunatic.  The self-loathing born of what must be his own proclivities (Dean was right, come to that, about Michael coming down hard in other men on what he hates in himself) have twisted Michael into a kind of monster Castiel didn’t want to believe really existed, and as he crouches transfixed in witness, he curses himself for a fool for doubting Dean Winchester when the other man tried, in his own way, to tell Castiel what was going on here.

Could he have stopped it?  Maybe not, but the fact that he didn’t even do the other man the courtesy of believing him makes Castiel feel like he bears some responsibility for what is happening, for what is going to happen.

These musings have taken no more than ten seconds, and Michael seems to feel that’s long enough to let the tension build.  “Say ‘yes, sir,’” he coaches Dean, almost gently, and Dean has to swallow twice, his mouth presumably too dry with horror to get the words out at first.

“Yes, sir,” Dean croaks, and Michael pats his cheek approvingly with the hand still holding the pliers.  Dean flinches just a little, and Michael’s smile widens as he reholsters the pliers.  There’s a pause then, and his expression doesn’t change in any discernible way, but Castiel can feel the energy around the clearing shift, a kind of expectancy spinning out in the split second before Michael releases Dean’s arm, sets both hands on his shoulders, and shoves him hard, carelessly, to his knees, pulling a quickly-stifled wince out of Dean.

The brutality is superfluous.  At this point he could’ve had Dean on his knees with a word, but he chooses instead to force it, and Castiel had fully believed that he’d reached the apex of loathing he was capable of holding for one man, but he finds that he’s got just a bit more to spare as Michael’s hands now trace almost lovingly through Dean’s hair.

“I’ve been thinking,” Michael says offhandedly, “wondering for ten long years.  Trying to decide.  Both were so good, I don’t rightly know which I liked better, your mouth or your ass.”

Castiel’s brain short-circuits, sparking like a lightbulb he once saw in the moments before it exploded altogether.

This has happened before—not like this, of course, but Michael and Dean have—they once— _what?_ Just… _what?_

Cas doesn’t have much time to ponder it, because Michael has not stopped speaking, and some part of Castiel knows that if he can’t stop this, the least he owes Dean is to bear witness to it, to stand in silent solidarity.  The other man doesn’t know he’s there, can’t feel the strength Castiel is trying to lend him, but it feels like the right thing to do.  The only thing to do.  To look away would be to take the coward’s way out, and no matter what the gang may tell themselves, Castiel is far from a coward.

“I just can’t decide,” Michael is telling Dean no more than fifteen feet away, “but we’ve got more than enough time for me to reassess.  Tonight, I’m gonna use your mouth.  Really take my time with it.  Tomorrow, your ass.  And maybe if you’re really lucky, Friday night I’ll try both.”

Dean’s body is a study in tension, his shoulders drawn tight, the muscles in his manacled wrists corded, fingers curled into claws, but he doesn’t move.  He doesn’t even lift his head until Michael tips his chin up.  “Now you remember what we talked about, Dean, don’t you?  What’s going to happen if you’re not a good boy for me?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says tightly, a symphony of loathing in the two syllables.  Michael pats his head, carelessly, like a dog, and Castiel grinds his teeth hard enough that it’s a miracle he doesn’t crack them all.

“Good.  Really convince me you mean it and I’ll make sure to be generous with the oil tomorrow night.  I know how good your best work is, and I mean to see it, or you’ll be shitting blood until a bullet finally puts you out of your misery.”

Michael doesn’t wait for a response this time.  With quick movements, he frees his cock, giving himself a few careless strokes.  It’s not necessary, what’s happened already has clearly been to Michael’s tastes.  His cock stands fully at attention, and Castiel watches in horrified fascination as he taps Dean’s jaw in wordless command.  Closing his eyes and setting his shoulders, Dean opens his mouth, and Michael cups the back of his head and slides in, directly to the hilt.  Dean makes a startled sound, half cough, and it’s no fucking wonder.  Castiel has taken a man that far before, into his throat, and it’s not for the faint of heart—it damn sure shouldn’t be for the unwilling either, not that any of this should.

The sound Michael makes, a low sigh, as if he’s suddenly found relief after weeks or months in unbearable pain, nearly drowns out the soft sound as he pulls back, then slides back in, not as far this time.  Dean remains rigid, and Michael reaches out to tangle fingers in his hair.

“Need a little direction to get you going?” he says quietly, his voice terrifyingly close to a lover’s caress. “Happy to provide.”

And so he does, using Dean’s hair as a handle to manipulate his head, working his hips in small jerks.  The tableau might be almost arousing in wildly different circumstances.  They are both handsome men, and the gentleness with which Michael appears to be handling Dean makes this look almost like something very different than what it is.  As it is, though, Castiel feels nothing but overwhelming revulsion.

He doesn’t know how much time goes by, but it seems like forever that Michael murmurs and groans, sinking over and over between Dean’s parted lips.  Castiel has given more than one blow job, and the nonsensical thought crosses his mind that Dean’s jaw must be getting quite sore.  He hopes the willow bark is making it a little more bearable, as if anything that’s happening here could be said to be bearable.

How is this _taking_ so long?  By the sounds he’s making, Michael is more than enjoying it, but he still hasn’t spilled himself, not even when he moans a little louder, his tone approving.  “There we go.  Much better, even if you’re only using your best tricks to try to speed things up.  I wouldn’t get too hopeful; I’m a man now, not little more than a boy, ready to spill so quickly anymore.  And anyway, I think maybe we’ll test another skill you’ve shown me,” he adds, and then Cas cringes as Michael’s fingers tighten in Dean’s hair before he again presses himself in deep, until Dean’s nose nestles in amongst the tangle of dark hair at his groin.  Soft choking sounds come from Dean, abortive coughs, and Michael tsks like a disappointed governess.  “Come now,” he says, “you can do better than that.”  He draws back, gazing down at Dean with his head tilted.  “Breathe,” he instructs, and Dean does, gasping once, twice, before Michael presses all the way in once more.  Castiel can see Dean’s throat working in the moonlight, can see the involuntary tears born of near-gagging begin to leak from the corners of his eyes.

“Beautiful,” Michael says, a hint of reverence to his tone, and stays deep as he traces the path of one tear with a single finger.  Then he draws back and begins a steady rhythm, pressing in and out of Dean, fucking his throat with the kind of relish that has bile creeping up Castiel’s gullet.  He has no idea how Dean has managed not to throw up.  Sheer force of will, probably, and the terror of what Michael will do to him if he does.

All Castiel can do is wish desperately for it to end, for Michael to finish at last, and then, finally, _finally,_ he does.  “Swallow,” he orders roughly as he goes deep and stays there, throwing his head back and groaning louder—but sadly, nowhere near loud enough to alert the rest of the sleeping camp.  The soft choking sounds from Dean increase, joined by gagging, and Michael finally starts to draw back.  “Every bit, now,” he tells Dean.  Castiel watches, unable to hold back a shudder as Michael reaches down, finger scooping up a single drop that spills over Dean’s chin and tucking it tenderly into his mouth.

“Good boy,” he says after a moment, ruffling his fingers again through Dean’s hair.  “Maybe not quite as good as I remembered, but that’s to be expected.  We’ll see how your ass compares tomorrow night.”  As he speaks, he’s reaching into his pocket, pulling out a small rag that looks like one of Cook’s.  He wipes himself down with it carelessly, then tucks himself away.  Dean hasn’t moved an inch since Michael drew back.  His mouth still hangs open, expression semi-vacant, as if he has gone somewhere even Michael can’t follow.

Castiel desperately hopes he has.

“Before I chain you back up to your tree,” Michael says conversationally, “do you need the latrine?”  There’s a pause, and then Dean blinks once, twice.  His lips snap back shut, and he nods once, jerkily. “Well then let’s get that taken care of,” Michael says, as if he wants nothing more than to see to it that Dean’s needs are tended to promptly.  He wraps a hand strongly around Dean’s upper arm and pulls him to his feet.  It seems to take Dean a moment to register what’s happening, and then he gets his feet under him and stands under his own power, once again swaying just slightly.  Michael chuckles with that same awful fondness, then pulls on Dean’s arm with a gentleness that bears no resemblance to the monster that lurks behind his friendly expression, guiding him out of the clearing and toward the latrine.

Castiel can’t scarcely feel his own feet, his lips tingling in a way that suggests he’s barely been breathing for some time now.  He forces in a long breath and then, before he can get lost in the horror of what he’s just witnessed, he crawls his way out of his scrub brush hiding place and hurries silently across the clearing and toward his own tent—but not all the way.  He goes just out of sight, into the shadow of one of the supply tents, and there he waits.  He waits until Michael leads an unresisting Dean back into the clearing and chains him once more to the tree.  Dean makes no protest—says nothing at all, in fact, and his eyes look faraway once more. 

“Might as well get some sleep,” Michael tells him, all friendly-like, sitting down across the clearing and leaning against a bag of oats meant for the horses.  “Lot of hours left before dawn, and you’ll want to be nice and alert for whatever Uriel’s cooking up for you.”  The ease with which he says this, as if he didn’t just rape Dean, as if he’s not planning to do it again, as if he’s not talking about another day of torture for a man who’s already been pushed to his limits—Castiel has to close his eyes and take a deep breath.

The clearing lapses into silence, and still, Castiel waits.  He counts off one minute, then two.  He counts off ten full minutes, and all the while, he talks himself down.  He forces on the mask he’s so good at wearing around his kin.  He cooks up a strategy.  He must be careful.  He must be very, very good.  Michael cannot for a second suspect that Castiel saw anything, knows anything.  In truth, Castiel ought to wait for two o’clock to arrive if he really means to avoid suspicion, but he cannot bear to leave Dean at Michael’s mercy any longer, even if Michael does nothing further tonight but look at him.

Finally, when he judges that it has been long enough, Castiel scrubs a hand through his hair to kick it up as wild as it gets.  He rubs his eyes hard enough to redden them and heads for the clearing, not troubling to be quiet.  As soon as he stumbles into it, he opens his jaw wide in a feigned yawn, pushing back the unwelcome thought that Michael had Dean’s jaw forced nearly this wide not long ago, then pats down his hair as if trying to tame it.

“Castiel,” Michael says in a tone of mild surprise, “it ain’t yet two.  It’s not but—” he pauses, pulling his pocket watch out of his vest and consulting it, “shortly after one.  I didn’t expect you for near on another hour.”

“Uriel woke me, sawing wood in the next tent over,” Castiel grunts, lowering his voice to make it sound gruff from sleep.  Michael barks a quick laugh—Uriel’s snoring is legendary around the camp.  “Had to use the latrine and figured I might as well spell you while I was at it.  No need for both of us to be awake.”

“Well that’s mighty kind of you,” Michael says, and Castiel is relieved to see that the look on his face is one of approval, “good to see you taking some initiative.”

“Do my best,” Castiel grunts, then waves a hand toward the latrine.  “Soon as I’m back, I’ll take over and you can catch some shut-eye.”

Michael nods agreeably and Castiel forces himself to shuffle past Dean without so much as a glance.  He uses the latrine, then heads directly back into the clearing, blinking as if he’s still trying to fully wake up.

“Wanna leave me the keys in case he needs the latrine?” Castiel asks as Michael stands up, careful to sound as if it’s no real difference to him. 

“No need,” Michael says carelessly, “he just used it.  Should be fine until morning.”

Damn.  Castiel will be unable to attend to his back without those keys, and he would’ve at least liked to give Dean freedom of movement through the clearing.  The least the man deserves is to have full control of his own body for a time—but he cannot even do this.  He couldn’t stop what happened, not without ending up dead himself, which would really make him no help to Dean—though he’s not exactly a whole lot of help now.  He can give Dean nothing, really, except to free him from Michael’s company for a time, and it is so wildly inadequate that he can barely breathe under the weight of his own uselessness.

“You got it, boss,” Castiel tells Michael, yawning again purely for an excuse not to meet his cousin’s eyes.  He thinks if he does, he’s likely to snap, no matter how hard he’s fought for control.

“I imagine he’ll sleep,” Michael tells Castiel, “but even if he don’t, he shouldn’t give you any trouble.  He’s been docile as a kitten all evening.” 

“I’m sure I can handle one beaten and trussed up Winchester,” Castiel says dismissively, moving to sit against one of the large wagon wheels, faintly surprised that he has not yet set Michael’s head on fire with his mind alone.  He refrains from so much as turning his head in Dean’s direction.  Michael cannot begin to suspect that Castiel feels anything more than indifference for Dean.  Castiel saw the possessiveness in his eyes clear as day, and he’s certain that if Michael thinks Castiel has even a scrap of real concern, let alone liking for Dean, he’ll see to it that Castiel isn’t allowed within fifty feet of the man. 

Michael chuckles a little, turning away.  “Someone’ll be by around breakfast time to spell you,” he tells Castiel, not waiting for a response before his boots crunch away into the darkness.

Again, Castiel waits.  Again, he counts.  Again, he does not even turn his head in Dean’s direction.  If he looks at the man he will be unable to stop himself from going to him, and he cannot leap to Dean’s side until he is absolutely certain that Michael will be back inside his tent.

Dean makes no sound.  He has not so much as twitched since Castiel walked into the clearing.  There is a sort of blankness to the silence from his direction that worries Castiel more than suppressed rage or even grief might.  He wants nothing more than to go to Dean, but instead, he waits, and he counts, and it is not until seven long minutes have passed that he finally comes to his feet and turns to the prisoner.  Dean’s eyes are open but distant, and Castiel has to swallow past a lump in his throat.

He has no goddamn business getting emotional.  He ain’t the one who’s suffered tonight.

He moves slowly, deliberately, keeping within Dean’s line of sight as he steps in closer and then crouches.

“Dean,” he says, and then, when there’s no response, again, more sharply.  _“Dean.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS: Graphic rape. Sorry about that, y'all. Michael is one sick fuck.


	9. Chapter 9

**Thursday, September 13, 1899  
The Wee Hours**

_“Dean,”_ a voice hisses, and maybe it’s the fact that the voice doesn’t belong to Michael, or maybe it’s the fact that the voice is the same one—the only one—that’s been something like kind to him in this open-air prison, but it pulls Dean back from wherever he’s gone. 

Sometime around the second time Michael forced himself as deep as he could go into Dean’s throat, he did something he’s only ever done once before in his life; he just sort of…checked out.  He didn’t even know it was a thing he still _could_ do.  It’s not that he wasn’t aware of what was happening—he was.  It’s just that it felt kind of like he was watching it from a distance, rather than directly experiencing it himself.  The only other time was close to a decade ago, as he stood on a street in the middle of Lawrence, helplessly watching his mother bleed out in his father’s arms.  Apparently, it’s an ability that only comes out in moments of such unsurpassed horror that Dean is incapable of existing fully inside his own skin anymore.  In other circumstances, it might be a terrifying thing, finding yourself present but apart, but Dean finds it as welcome now as he did while his mother died in the dust.  It’s better than fully feeling the weight of what’s happening to him, fully experiencing moments that rank as the worst in his life.

Because, yes, this moment has joined that one as one of the lowest.  Dean’s helplessness in his mother’s dying is rivaled by his helplessness at Michael’s hands, even if it’s a very different kind of helplessness.  It’s a different kind of horror, too, he supposes, but more than enough to be getting on with.

Dean doesn’t know how long it might have taken him to really come back from the haze, but that voice, the urgency in it, breaks through the veil.  Dean feels as though he’s surfacing from deep underwater.  His vision loses the edge of fuzziness.  Sounds sharpen.  The aches and pains in his body roar back to full power, and he becomes fully aware for the first time of how sore his jaw is, how raw his throat feels.

He becomes fully aware of the taste in his mouth, salty and a little bitter, and the film he can still feel on his tongue.

He’s swallowed more than one man’s spend before and liked it.  Hell, he’s swallowed Michael Novak’s spend before and had no objection, but suddenly the taste in his mouth, the stickiness still on his tongue, is too much for Dean.

He turns his head, retching, feeling his gorge rise and trying hard to fight it back.  He distantly heard the conversation that happened between Castiel and Michael.  If he vomits into his own lap, he’ll be sitting in it all night, and he doesn’t think he can bear that indignity heaped on top of so many.

So he fights, gagging and choking and refusing to let himself give into it, and all the while, Castiel crouches before him, at eye level.  His hands hover uncertainly in the air, as if he wants to help but doesn’t know how, as if he doesn’t want to lay hands on Dean without permission.  As if he knows, somehow, that Dean can’t bear to be touched just now.

But that’s not possible.  Is it?

“Dean,” Castiel says again, urgently, “breathe.  Breathe through it.  Deep breaths through your nose.” Dean obeys him, dragging in deep breaths through his nose and finding that they help a little.  He bites back another retch, closing his eyes, and Castiel speaks hastily.  “Keep breathing.  I’m gonna grab a canteen real quick, let you rinse the—the taste out of your mouth.”

The implication, what he so clearly means when he says that, startles Dean so much that he completely forgets to gag again.  Instead his eyes shoot open and lock with Castiel’s.  The man freezes, halfway to his feet, then lifts a single finger, as if to hold Dean’s many questions.  He’s gone no more than a moment and comes back with a different canteen than the one he’s offered Dean twice before, but Dean ain’t in any mood to be picky.  Castiel unscrews the canteen and edges closer, careful, extending his arm out real far, as if he’s making sure not to get any nearer than he absolutely has to, as if he’s determined not to force his way into Dean’s personal space.

Dean parts his lips for the canteen and feels another wave of nausea go through him as he remembers so recently opening his mouth for a different purpose, but a moment later Castiel is tipping water, blessedly clear and surprisingly cool, past his lips. 

“Rinse,” Castiel advises him, and Dean does, swishing the water around and then spitting it to one side.  “Again…?” Castiel half tells, half asks, and Dean nods, accepting another mouthful of water and rinsing once more before he spits again.  “Wanna drink some, too?” Castiel asks after Dean pauses to breathe for a moment, and Dean nods once more.  Carefully, tipping the canteen back for brief moments and pausing as long as necessary in between, Castiel helps Dean to drink most of the rest of it, and by the time the canteen is nearly empty, the bitter taste is gone from his mouth and his stomach has reluctantly agreed to hold onto its contents.

Castiel caps it again, then sets it aside.  He shuffles back a few steps, getting fully out of Dean’s space, and then, rather than retreating back to the wagon wheel, he just…sits, his body nearly collapsing inward.

“You saw,” Dean says, not a question.  His voice is rough with the abuse his throat has taken, and Castiel’s face contorts in a mingling of rage, grief, and disgust that looks almost unsettlingly like what Dean is currently feeling.

“I saw,” he confirms shortly, then takes a breath as if to continue but falters, going silent.

If this were someone else, Dean might worry that the man’s disgust had more to do with seeing two men together than with the circumstances under which it happened, but it doesn’t even occur to him that this is what is plaguing Castiel, what has him so entirely beside himself that he cannot seem to find words.  Dean can’t know for sure, of course, that Castiel is—like him, but he’s got an instinct about such things, and between that moment the previous night, Castiel’s passing comment about Michael not liking the way he was made, and Dean’s gut feeling, he feels pretty confident that it’s not the notion of men being together in that way that has stolen Castiel’s voice. 

Dean feels like he ought to say something, defuse the tension somehow, but what the hell would he say?  He can’t lay his mind on any semi-humorous quip to break the moment, and seconds later Castiel finds his voice anyway, obviating the need for Dean to be the one to break the silence.

“It should never have happened,” he says, the certainty in his voice deepening it a few degrees.  “And I should have listened when you—when you tried to tell me.  I should’ve believed you.”

“Hey now,” Dean interrupts, surprised, “this ain’t your fault.”

“Ain’t it?” Castiel challenges, the anger in his eyes meant for himself and not for Dean, “I saw.  I _saw._ And I did nothing.  I crouched like a coward in the shadows and just—let it happen.”

“No,” Dean says instantly, well aware of the flaw in this logic.  “You couldn’t have changed this.  All you coulda done was get you and maybe both of us killed.  Mich—”  Dean makes it halfway through the name before finding he cannot say it without his gorge again wanting to rise, so he cuts himself off and tries again, “—he’s been waiting a decade for the chance.  He wouldn’t have let nothing nor nobody stop him.”

Castiel’s brows furrow at the reference Dean makes to his history with Michael, but he seems to sense that now isn’t the moment to ask for the details.  “Maybe not,” Castiel tells him, “but I tell you this, Dean Winchester,” and here his voice deepens again, quiet but ringing with authority, “it will never. Happen.  Again.”

“That’s a lovely sentiment,” Dean tells Castiel, trying to chuckle and failing miserably, “but I’m afraid there ain’t much chance of that neither.  If you heard enough, you know he’s got more plans for me.”

“I did,” Castiel says, “and I do know, but nevertheless.  You have my word.  As long as I draw breath, Michael won’t lay another hand on you again in that—in that way.”

“It’s okay,” Dean says, feeling oddly touched by Castiel’s protectiveness combined with his fumbling attempts not to make it worse.  When Dean speaks again, he finds that he suddenly sounds as tired as feels, “you don’t have to dance around it.  You can say it.  I may not have much time left on this earth, but I can at least come to terms with what’s been done to me.  Call it what it was.”

“Okay,” Castiel says, visibly steeling himself.  His eyes, silver-blue in the moonlight, harden a little.  “Rape.  He will never rape you again, as long as I draw breath.”

“And again I tell you that I appreciate the sentiment, but don’t be staking your life on it now.  I ain’t got much time left, but you seem a decent sort.  It ain’t worth dying to try to stop the inevitable.”

Castiel actually scares up a ghost of a smile, and Dean thinks it might be the saddest one he’s ever seen.  “To paraphrase Benjamin Franklin,” he tells Dean, “nothing’s inevitable but death and taxes, and ain’t neither of us dead yet.”

“True enough,” Dean allows, finding that he doesn’t much have an appetite for arguing about whether or not being raped again is inevitable.

“Why don’t you try to get some sleep,” Castiel says, as if he senses Dean’s existential exhaustion.  The gentleness in his voice is at least as soothing as Michael’s feigned tenderness was repellent.  “I’ll watch over you.”

It makes no real sense, but the pronouncement is a comfort.  Dean doesn’t believe for a moment that Castiel can prevent any of the things Michael means to do to him in the days and nights to come, but he does believe that Castiel wouldn’t let anything happen to Dean unawares, while he slumbers.  If something is to come, Castiel will at least wake him before it does.

He’d thank the man, but he suddenly finds there’s a lump in his throat and that his eyes are prickling, the offered kindness threatening to break open Dean’s suppressed pain and rage in a way that all of Michael’s brutality could not.  Instead of speaking and risking his already broken voice cracking with emotion, Dean dips his head in a nod to Castiel that he hopes encompasses everything he can’t say.

Castiel smiles again, just a little, just as sadly, retreating back to the wagon wheel.  As Dean settles himself as comfortably as he’s able against the tree and closes his eyes, Castiel begins to hum softly, a lullaby Dean hasn’t heard or thought of in some many years.

It’s ridiculous on its face—he’s a grown man, a prisoner, and he’s going to die soon, but the quiet rumble of the song soothes Dean in places he didn’t think were reachable after the events of tonight.

He’s asleep in moments, and the expected nightmares don’t come, as if chased away by the sound of Castiel’s voice.


	10. Chapter 10

**Thursday, September 14, 1899**

He rests surprisingly well, the watchful eyes of Castiel allowing him to give into exhaustion in a way he couldn’t last night, waiting for what was to come.

He comes awake shortly after dawn, and Castiel is still there, still watchful, though there are deep blue circles beneath his drooping eyes.  It occurs to Dean as he stretches as much as he’s able to that Castiel must not have gotten any sleep at all.

“Mornin’,” Castiel says quietly, then lifts the canteen from last night in question.  Dean nods gratefully, and Castiel comes across the clearing to offer him sips of water.  He refilled the canteen sometime while Dean slept, and Dean is grateful to again be able to rinse the phantom taste of Michael from his mouth.

When he’s drunk his fill, Castiel returns to the wagon wheel to sit, eyes settled on Dean in open concern.

“I’m okay,” Dean tells him, then laughs a little.  “Well, no, I ain’t, but I’m not liable to fall apart at any moment, anyhow, and that’s about as good as it gets.”

“Anything I can do for you?” Castiel offers, and Dean pauses thoughtfully, frowning.  There ain’t much Castiel has the power to do, but there is one thing that’s been plaguing him and, hell, why not go for it.  The camp is only just beginning to stir and they might as well pass the time with talk.  Castiel has seen Dean stripped bare in more than one way.  It seems only fair that he bare his own soul just a bit.

“You can tell me what you meant when you said Michael didn’t much like the way you were made,” Dean says, then adds, “but only if you’re willing.”

“I’ll make you a bargain,” Castiel says thoughtfully.  “You tell me a bit about the history you and Michael so clearly got, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“Seems a fair trade,” Dean allows, settling back against the tree before he begins the story.  He fills Castiel in on what happened ten years ago, sketching it in broad strokes.  No need to give him a blow-by-blow of their tryst.  He can see the anger bubbling under Castiel’s skin and suspects he can guess the origin of it, but he can wait for confirmation of that when Castiel has his say presently.

* * *

“Jeez,” Castiel whistles when Dean’s story is done.  “And you said that was, what, half a year after Charles died?  Michael musta just been beside himself when he realized who he was with.”

“Sure enough,” Dean agrees, “though for the record, a heist gone wrong always did seem to us to be an odd reason for such enmity to spark between the gangs.”

“It likely would be,” Castiel says, a bit confused, “but for the betrayal.”

“Be—what betrayal?” Dean asks, his own confusion now mirroring Castiel’s.

“Your father—and Singer.  What they did to Chuck and Zachariah’s tack?” Castiel says as if he’s relating something that ought to be clear already.

Dean’s eyes widen a little and he huffs out a breath.  “You maybe ain’t got no reason to believe me, but I promise you that Pop and Bobby never did a damn thing to Charles’ tack.  They thought it musta just split, and that Zachariah was too upset to make the meet-up after what he saw happen to his brother, and next thing we knew y’all were shooting at us every chance you got, yellin’ about—"

“Wait,” Castiel says, holding up a hand.  _“Zachariah_ didn’t make the rendezvous?”

“Nope,” Dean says, absolute certainty in his tone.  “Pop and Uncle Bobby waited for hours, but there was no sign of him.  Are you saying he told y’all—”

“That your gang skipped out on the rendezvous with the money after sabotaging his and Charles’ tack on purpose?  He surely did,” confirms Castiel, and probably he ought to be ignoring every word out of Dean’s mouth, but the thing is—Dean has no reason to lie.  He’ll be dead in a few short days, and the certainty in his voice is absolute.  Castiel finds it easy to believe that Dean Winchester is a fundamentally honest man, no matter how brief their acquaintance has been, and he shakes his head slowly as it all starts to come into clarity.  “Zachariah,” he says shortly.  “I wasn’t hardly more than a boy, but I always got the sense that maybe he didn’t much like the way Chuck ran things around here.  What if—”

“—he saw an opportunity and he took it?” Dean finishes.  “I’ll be damned.  I think we just got to the bottom of this feud.”

“Not that it’ll make any real difference,” Cas says with a sigh.  “Too much blood spilled since then for it to matter overmuch how it started.”

Dean nods in agreement, and they lapse into silence for a moment.  Castiel can almost see Dean remembering his mother’s death, and in the effort to save him from traveling down what must be a dark offshoot of memory lane, he clears his throat and goes on.  “But it seems to me that I owe you a story.”

“You do,” Dean confirms, and Castiel nods.

“Seven years ago now, or thereabouts, I was off on a supply run in Kansas City with a few of the men.  They ventured off to find their evening’s entertainment in a brothel, and—well, they ain’t never held much interest for me,” he says a bit cautiously.  Dean smiles a little, knowingly. 

“Nor for me neither,” he confirms, “but you already know that.”

“I’d met a bar lad earlier in the day, though, and there’d been a bit of an understanding passed between us.  Neither of us said anything, but—”

“But you can tell anyhow,” Dean agrees readily, “I’ve shared such an understanding more’n once myself.”

“I met him as he got off of work, out back of the saloon, and I have no damn clue what business Michael had back there, but we were in the midst of it when there’s a hand on the back of my neck,” Cas tells him, forcing himself to speak as calmly as he can.  He hasn’t forgotten the moment, the indignity and humiliation of it, nor what followed.  “I never found out what happened to the bar lad.  Michael dragged me to the town whipping post, shackled me to it, and went to work on me with a horsewhip, just like—”

“Just like he did to me,” Dean says quietly, his face a picture of revulsion that Castiel knows perfectly well ain’t meant for him.

“Yeah,” Castiel confirms, scuffing his boot in the dirt.  “Beat me six kinds of bloody, then told me if he ever saw me do it again he’d send me to hell himself.  Made me walk the eight miles back to camp with my bleeding back bare for the whole gang to see and my horse trotting along empty next to us.  Word of what happened got around real fast and I ain’t been much of a favorite around here since.”

“Worthless fuckin’ hypocrite,” Dean spits, and Castiel knows that ain’t meant for him neither.

“Sure enough,” he agrees, and before he can say aught more, Jeremiah, one of the young men, comes into the clearing with a bowl of eggs and nods to Castiel.  “Michael says you can grab some grub and find your bed.  He and Uriel will be along shortly for—”

“Yeah,” Castiel says, not keen on making Jeremiah say it.  “Thank you, Jeremiah.”  He rises, turning away, but once he’s beyond Jeremiah’s line of sight, he nods once to Dean.  It’s farewell.  It’s godspeed, for the day of pain to come.  And it’s also an attempt to say that he means to keep his promise.  That Michael won’t get another chance like the one he got last night. 

He had many hours while Dean slept, and he’s used them to cook up some plans.

He barely manages to shovel some food into his mouth before collapsing face down into his bedroll, and then he knows nothing until evening sun is beating down on the back of his neck through the tent flap he never even bothered to close.

Castiel rouses himself then goes to wash up and find another quick meal.  He’s got a few things to accomplish before full dark.

* * *

Dean expects the night to look a good deal like last night, regardless of the impassioned promise Castiel made to him in the wee hours yesterday.  It’s been clear from the get-go that the man has no real power here, and while Dean fully believes he means to prevent Dean from bearing the brunt of Michael’s toxic lust again, he’s not really in any position to stop it.

This is what Dean tells himself, shifting his bruised body restlessly after Michael, Uriel and Daniel, who replaced Bart in today’s torture session, march off to the cook tent.  Michael will eat dinner with the rest of the men, and when he’s done, he’ll be back, and then—well.  He made it clear enough yesterday what he was planning on tonight.  Dean can’t stop him, not if he doesn’t want Michael to turn his considerable wrath toward Charlie and Sam once Dean’s dead, so he’ll just have to endure it and do his best to make it a boring, forgettable ride.  If it’s miserable enough, maybe Michael will decide it ain’t worth the risk of discovery to get a repeat tomorrow.

This is what Dean tells himself, shifting a little where he sits, all-too-aware that his ass is one of about three spots on his body that ain’t currently paining him, and that he won’t be able to say that for long.  This is what he tells himself as the minutes crawl by, and this is what he’s still telling himself when he tunes in to awareness that the noise from over near the main campfire has been rising steadily for some minutes now. 

Shaking himself out of his own head and setting aside the dread that’s been creeping up on him as the moments pass, Dean closes his eyes and focuses on what he can hear, but he can’t make out any specific words in the mix. It ain’t much more than a general cacophony of voices, but what he is pretty sure of is that they’re not raised in celebration, and soon enough the voices are joined by clangs and thuds, and that’s around the time that it occurs to Dean whatever’s happening over there sounds mighty like a brawl, and ain’t that something?  He hasn’t known the Novaks to do a whole lot of fighting amongst themselves.  He’s always had the impression that Zachariah runs too tight a ship for much of that, and while Zachariah ain’t currently here, Dean can’t imagine what sparked whatever’s happening over there.  However it began, it’s only getting rowdier and more heated, from the sounds of it.

They’re a good twenty minutes in by the time a figure appears around the corner of the nearest tent, hat shadowing his face, and Dean’s stomach drops.  He’d started to hope that maybe the ruckus would at least delay Michael, but—

“Good evening,” comes the oddly formal voice of Castiel Novak, and Dean lets out a long breath.  It ain’t Michael after all.  “I’m told you were already taken to the latrine, but let’s get some dinner into you.”

“Still getting hit with the grunt work, eh?  Feed and water the prisoner before Michael takes first watch?”

Castiel’s lips twist a little wryly as he pulls his hat off and sets it carefully to one side, hanging the lantern over a spike driven deep into a tree—same spike that held Dean’s manacles above his head not too long ago, come to that.  “Yes and no.  Grunt work?  Always, but Michael won’t be taking first watch tonight.”

Dean blinks, brows lifting a little.  “Oh no?” He says cautiously.

“Seems he likely won’t be taking any watch at all, matter of fact,” Castiel tells him, face and voice as unreadable as a newspaper left to bleach in the sun for a month.

“Is that so?” Dean says, narrowing his eyes a touch on Castiel, the request for an explanation unspoken but no less obvious.

“Seems tempers were running a little hot this evening,” Castiel tells him, scrubbing a hand absently through his hair, succeeding only in sending it in twelve new wildly different directions than it was already in.  “A few of the men got a little too inebriated and…overheard some things they didn’t much like from a few of the others.”

“I thought I might have heard the sound of—uh, disagreement from the campfire,” Dean agrees, pretty sure that he and Castiel are having another conversation underneath this verbal one, but not quite sure what it entails yet.

“May have started as a disagreement, but it’s a good deal more than that now,” Castiel says neutrally.  “Probably take hours to sort out what happened and keep pryin’ them off one another, as drunk as they all are.”  There’s something in the slight pursing of Castiel’s lips that implies a man who is trying very hard not to smile, and Dean suddenly has a keen suspicion as to who might just have planted the seeds of the brawl and why.

“And as the man in charge of camp…” Dean says, his own lip twitching a little as his eyes meet Castiel’s and lock there.  An understanding passes between them.

“…Michael’s the one as needs to get to the bottom of it,” Castiel confirms.  “Zachariah wouldn’t be much pleased if he came back to find half the men killed or maimed by the other half.”

“So while he’s dealing with that…”

“…I’ll be taking watch.”

“All night,” Dean says, and while he could be asking, he’s not. 

“All night,” Castiel agrees.  “So how about that dinner?  You hungry?”

“Ravenous,” Dean says, unable to keep from smiling at the man who he’s pretty goddamn sure tied his own gang into knots purely to save Dean from another night of rape, and suddenly finding that his curdled stomach feels a whole lot less sour.

For the first time since they met, Castiel smiles back.  A real smile.  The corners of his eyes crinkle up, and damned if he ain’t got about the most charming dimples Dean’s ever seen.  He stares, unable to stop himself.  He may not be in exactly the sort of trouble he anticipated having tonight, but Dean’s in some kind of trouble nevertheless.

* * *

The night passes easily enough between them, quiet moments of talk interspersed with Dean dozing.  On the bright side, the ankle shackles someone scared up for Dean during the day mean that he’s no longer chained to the tree itself, just near it (he can’t exactly mount a horse with his ankles chained together, making him somewhat less of a flight risk), so Castiel can escort him to the latrine as needed, and bit by bit Dean begins to feel he knows the man, one brief conversation at a time. 

Though Castiel’s supposed to be the one watching Dean, by the time he can’t contain his yawning an hour or two from dawn, Dean tells him to catch some shut eye.

“You certain?” Castiel asks, squinting at him.  “Seems to me you need your rest more.”

“Am I certain?  About as certain as I am that if there hadn’t coincidentally been a brawl, I’d have had a much less restful night.  About as certain as I am that I’m happy to help out a man as has helped me out a fair few times—even at risk to himself.”

Castiel stares at him for a long moment.  “Fair enough,” he finally says, then nods once.  “I thank you, Dean.”

“You’re welcome, Cas,” Dean says, and surprise ghosts across the other man’s face. 

“Cas.  Ain’t anybody called me that in a good long time.”  Dean’s just opened his mouth to apologize, when Castiel smiles, just a little, and just for Dean.  “I like it.”

“Cas it is then,” Dean tells him, smiling back.  “I’ll make noise if someone comes around to check on things.”

“If not, wake me around dawn.”

“Sure will,” Dean tells him.

Castiel Novak looks a good deal younger in sleep.  Almost vulnerable, with his long lashes resting against his stubble-shadowed cheeks.  It’s as endearing as it is surprising.

At least, Dean tells himself, he’s like to be dead before he can embarrass himself with this considerable crush he’s building.

Silver linings; gotta find ‘em where you can.


	11. Chapter 11

**Friday, September 14, 1899**

Friday morning dawns awful quiet around the Novak camp, which probably has something to do with the fact that it was well into the wee hours before the protracted ruckus fully quieted down.  Dean lets Cas sleep a little longer than he might otherwise have, but he can’t see the sense in waking the man up when he’d be the only one alert.  Even the cook tent is silent, with nary a scent of coffee to be detected anywhere—looks like it’ll be jerky and warm water for breakfast for everyone today.

When he finally does rouse Castiel it’s gotta be coming near on eight o’clock, and there’s still no sign of activity from the rest of the camp.

Around ten, by the sun, there’s some feeble stirring, but hangovers seem extra abundant today if the squinting and grumbling is anything to go by, and just about every face that’s passed within sight on the way to the latrine is bruised or split somewhere.  Hell of a brawl it must have been.

The twitch of Castiel’s jaw when he sees the shiner adorning Bart’s face as he staggers by around eleven damn near makes Dean laugh, and he has to bury his face in his own (rather rank, by now) shirt to avoid detecting notice. 

“Seems to me,” Dean tells Cas around noon, when he’s finished the cold stew and water Castiel went and scared up for him, “you’ve more than fulfilled your watch duties for the night.  Why don’t you go find a bedroll?  Ain’t nothing gonna happen to me in the light of day.”

He’s perfectly aware that Castiel, though ordered to keep watch, was doing so in a very different manner than intended.  Rather than guarding against Dean’s escape, he again seems to have taken it upon himself to guard Dean’s well-being, though Dean’s damned if he knows why.

As Castiel finally allows himself to be convinced and stumbles tiredly off for his own small tent, Dean resolves to figure out a better way to ask him.

* * *

What was no doubt intended to be a rousing day of torture ends up bearing no more than a few half-hearted kicks from a couple of the lesser Novaks, and Dean doesn’t even catch a glimpse of Michael until near sundown, sporting a broad scrape across one cheek and a swollen lip.  His eyes glitter as he comes into the clearing, and he glances around for company before crouching in front of Dean.

“You and me had an appointment last night, and I am so deeply sorry that matters of state made me cancel.  Rest assured,” he says, smiling slowly—the swollen lip only makes him look a little unhinged and therefore more dangerous, “that tonight I intend to make up for standing you up, boy.  Consider your dance card full.”

Dean’s been working real hard to behave himself in the important ways where Michael is concerned, but he feels confident enough to risk spitting derisively at Michael’s feet.  The gesture earns him a slap that rocks his head back and splits his half-healed lip in payment, but Michael is grinning, apparently enjoying himself too much to be angry.  “Such a spitfire,” he nearly croons.  “But I know how to put out fires.  After dinner, after everyone’s called it an early night, I’ll be back.  Look for me around moonrise.”

Fuck.

* * *

Dean is a bundle of nerves despite his best efforts to keep himself calm, and nobody comes around with dinner.  So little attention is paid to him that he actually manages to grab a canteen and shuffle to the latrine and back on his own with nothing more than a lackluster threat aimed in his direction from a passing Novak about how many ways he’ll regret it if he so much as thinks of trying to run for it (his quick retort in which he demands they give him lessons on how to run in shackles if they’re so sure it can be done earns a single-finger salute and nothing further—the entire camp really must have a hell of a hangover) and in the end, moonrise bears not Michael but still another pleasant surprise. 

“Dinner’s a little late tonight, but I brought extra to make up for it,” Castiel’s voice floats across the clearing, familiar and welcome and shortly followed by the man himself.

“It’s greatly appreciated,” Dean tells him, his brows already up around his hairline in anticipation of learning exactly why he’s once again getting quite a different guard than he expected.  “I was made to understand you’d be taking second watch tonight,” Dean says, damn near giddy with relief and asking the question the easiest way he knows how.

“Well damned if I ain’t gotten stuck with the full night again, though the rest of ‘em ain’t know that yet,” Castiel says, and Dean’s pretty sure it’s familiarity that makes him able to so clearly identify the laughter underlying the man’s voice.

“Don’t be keeping me in suspense now,” Dean prompts, and Cas actually has to stifle a snicker in his own arm as one of the men hurries by toward the latrine, looking intensely harried.

They both stay silent, waiting as he does his business and then rushes back toward the campfire, and as Cas leans over to hand Dean a generous bowl of stew—nice and hot this time, with a thick hunk of fresh bread and everything—Dean startles enough that he nearly dumps his dinner on himself as the sound of howling begins from near the campfire. 

It ain’t wolves—he knows what those howls sound like, and even if he didn’t, the fact that the howls quickly devolve into something that sounds suspiciously like _yodeling_ is a dead giveaway.

“Exactly what in the blue-bellied fuck,” Dean demands, as Castiel dissolves into silent laughter that makes his face almost painfully gorgeous in the flickering lamplight, “is going on over there?”

“I imagine that Bart’s decided he’s a wolf.  Or maybe Daniel.  Could be Uriel, I suppose.  Or even Cook.  I think he got a double dose,” Castiel says, wiping his eyes and grinning broadly at Dean.

“A double dose of…”

“You know they say you ought never to use any mushrooms you ain’t real certain of,” Cas informs him with an earnestness that would be endearing even if it weren’t underlain with such mischief.  “Some of ‘em look mighty like the others, and poisoning ain’t the only thing as can happen to a man who eats the wrong one.”

“I’ve heard tell,” Dean says, cottoning on real quick, “of a particular one that makes people see and hear and believe things as aren’t there.”

“Seems one of the boys Cook sent to collect them may have picked some of the wrong kind of mushrooms, and they went into the second batch of this evening’s stew,” Cas says with such affected gravity that now it’s Dean who’s shaking with silent laughter.  “Quite a situation the camp leader’s got on his hands tonight, what with some men who think they’re wolves, at least one who’s pretty sure he’s supposed to eat fire, and several who keep trying to fornicate with the horses.  I imagine it’ll take all night for the men who didn’t get a heavy dose to get the ones who did settled down safely.”

“Bad luck,” Dean observes, manacles clanking as he lifts his hands to wipe tears of mirth from his eyes, “but I imagine it’s an easy mistake to make when everyone was so hung over today.”

“Sure enough,” Cas agrees readily, “that was bad luck, too.  Someone mixed up the casks of whiskey yesterday and instead of everyone getting their rations from the stuff cut half and half with water, they were all drinking it straight.  Seems nobody thought to mention to Michael how much stronger it was than usual.  I’m told he was right angry at the drinkers when he found out.”

“I take it you’re not a drinker,” Dean says, quirking a brow at the other man.  Cas sobers, the smile going from his face.

“Not in this camp,” he tells Dean.  “Not with these people.  I ain’t got no objection to it, don’t mind a drink under the right circumstances, but it’s best to keep your wits about you when you’re surrounded by—” he trails off, and Dean picks up for him

“—enemies.  Dangers.  Fuckin’ sadists.  Say it however you want, I catch your meaning.  And—I thank you, again, for what you did for me last night, and again tonight.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cas says airily, choosing to bypass the conversation about his family and pay attention to the gratitude, “the camp’s just run into a spell of real bad luck.”

“Of course,” Dean says, chuckling.  “I seem to have run into a spell of luck myself, but it ain’t so bad as all that.”

“Eat your stew afore it gets cold, and don’t worry,” Cas tells him, those damn dimples appearing, “it’s from the first batch.”

Dean bends to his dinner with a grin on his face, shaking his head.

* * *

The night passes as pleasantly as last night in the same mix of conversation and sleep, the truly bizarre sounds coming from nearer the center of things notwithstanding.  Dean has to work real hard not to burst into laughter when an extremely harassed-looking Michael and another Novak he knows only by sight manage with great difficulty to cajole a naked and singing Uriel over to the latrine and then back again.

“What do you think you’ll do with yourself?” Dean asks a couple hours after Uriel’s nude performance.  He knows he’s dozed some more because he can just see the dark grey of impending dawn tingeing the sky in the east.

“Do with myself when?” Cas inquires, instantly alert and squinting in that way that’s become so familiar.  Dean hides a smile, wiping his chin on his own shoulder as the curve of his mouth causes his lower lip to split open again.

“When we’re out of a job, of course,” Dean tells him mildly.  “Outlawry’s a dyin’ art, at least as it is today.  My pop says the automobile’s gonna kill the stagecoach within the decade and I reckon he’s right.  Train security’s never been tighter.  We’re runnin’ out of work.”

“Y’all have a point, maybe,” Cas allows.  “Wild west ain’t so wild anymore.  Too many towns, too many people.”

“So?” Dean presses.  “What’ll you do?”

“Don’t rightly know,” Cas says, shifting to settle himself a little more comfortably against the wagon wheel that serves as his backrest.  “I thought about going into the military when I was younger, but in the end I couldn’t see my way to joining up.  The Indian Wars—well.”

“Not much justice in ‘em, was there?” Dean nods agreement, recognizing where Cas is going with this. “Not a real popular opinion, maybe, but when you start drivin’ folks off the land they’ve called theirs for centuries and then call ‘em savages when they protest, no wonder you end up with a fight on your hands.”

“That opinion’s popular with me,” Cas says quietly, scuffing one boot in the dirt.  “They were over with by the time I could’ve joined up, but it soured me on the Army anyhow.  Seems silly to say I’d go into law, seeing as how I spend my life breaking it, but—”

“Nah, it’s not silly.  I’ve thought the same a time or two if I’m honest.  You learn a lot about the law when you’re breakin’ it, and I’ve met more’n one law man I liked and respected.  There’s honor in bein’ one of the good ones.  Helpin’ people.”

“Exactly.  Anyhow, not like I’m likely to get the opportunity.  This life ends short and bloody as often as not, and it’s not like I can count on my family to have my back.”  His voice is tinged with rich irony and Dean chuckles along even though it’s really not especially funny, the way they treat him.

“It ain’t right, you know,” he finds himself telling Cas before he can stop himself, despite the way the man avoided the topic earlier.  People get real protective of family even when it’s toxic, and this is wading into a mess.  “How they treat you, I mean.  Family don’t end in blood but it oughta start there at least.”

“Don’t end in—”

“Blood.  Something my Uncle Bobby used to say, and I figure he’s right.  Only he ain’t really my uncle.  We don’t share any blood.  Benny ain’t blood family either—nor Garth or Charlie neither, come to that.  Half the gang ain’t blood, but they’re my family sure as Sam and Pop are.  I figure family’s about more than just kin.  It’s about who’s there for you.  Who watches your back, and who’d step in front of a bullet before they let one hit you in the back.  About who trusts you, loves you even when it’s hard to like you.  No offense, Cas, but I ain’t seen much evidence your kin is any of those things to you.”

“You ain’t wrong,” Cas allows after a moment, taking off his hat again and running his hand through his already mussed hair, leaving it a total disaster on his head.  “But they’re all I’ve got.”  He says it with finality and a certain fatalism, but there’s no self-pity in it, and it makes Dean like him just a little more than he already did.

Which was already too much, if he’s honest with himself—but hell, if this is his last couple days, at least he’s got a friend to pass the time, no matter what his last name is.  “If I thought I had more than a couple days left on my tab, I’d tell you that they ain’t quite all you’ve got, but a dead man who just ain’t stopped moving yet maybe isn’t worth so much.”

“Don’t say that,” Cas says almost immediately, an intensity to his voice that makes Dean squint through the darkness to make out his expression.  He’s looking back at Dean with an intentness that should be disconcerting but somehow isn’t.  “It’s worth a hell of a lot to me.  And you ain’t dead yet.  I ain’t counting you out so soon; maybe you shouldn’t either.”  There’s something in his voice—a sharpness, an implication that Dean barely dares to let himself believe is really there, but there’s no mistaking the slow nod Cas gives him.

“If you say so,” Dean says with a far greater casualness than he feels.  If he ain’t mistaken, Cas is cooking yet another surprise up, and it don’t involve Dean ending up as a mangled body dumped somewhere near Winchester Central.  “Now why don’t you try and catch a couple hours of shut-eye.  Seems like maybe the wolf pack has finally been put to bed,” his wording makes Castiel snort, but sure enough, the camp seems finally to have quieted with approaching dawn, “you’re probably safe to sleep for a time.”

“You sure?” Castiel checks, and Dean laughs a little.

“I think I might have gotten more sleep tonight than anyone else in this camp,” he tells Cas.  “I’m sure.  I’ll wake you after dawn unless someone looks to be coming around sooner.”

Castiel gives him a faint smile, then settles himself back against the wagon wheel and closes his eyes.

It’s probably a little creepy to watch a man sleep, but it ain’t like Dean’s got anything better to do.


	12. Chapter 12

**Saturday, September 15, 1899**

Again, he lets Castiel sleep longer than the man probably intended, but the camp is even slower to rouse today than it was yesterday.  The sun is high in the sky and they’ve both been awake for a few hours and eaten a meal of jerky and last night’s bread before there’s more than one or two stragglers up and out of their tents.

Dean doesn’t even catch a glimpse of Michael until the sun is well past its zenith and he’s long since sent Castiel off to find his actual bedroll for a few hours.  Michael’s hair is mussed and greasy atop his head, his face is blue with stubble, and he’s got something that looks a hell of a lot like dried vomit smeared on his pants.  Dean thinks back to last night, when Castiel helpfully informed him that the mushrooms in question often didn’t sit so well in the stomach, and has to force a coughing fit into his own elbow to avoid bursting into intemperate and extremely unwise laughter.

He may have escaped Michael’s clutches the last two nights, and due to sheer exhaustion may even have avoided the abuse of the Novak men yesterday and, it’s looking increasingly likely, today, but he knows better to assume that a tired, irritated, and denied Michael is any less menacing than a well-rested and satisfied one.  Ridiculous-looking or not, he’s only more dangerous like this, and while Dean’s starting to realize it ain’t wise to bet against Castiel, he’s also not so foolish as to think Michael doesn’t plan to make up for lost time tonight.

He gets confirmation of this an hour or two later, just as the sun starts to sink below the horizon.  For the first time that day, the cook tent is open, the smell of good, hot food emerging, and while the men are still moving far more slowly than usual, the camp is truly active once more.  Of course, some of the men look worse for wear than others (the faint green tinge to Uriel’s skin seems to suggest that it might have been his vomit Michael was sporting earlier), but Dean just can’t seem to work up much in the way of sympathy for them.

Dean’s stomach has started to growl at the scent of rich meat—beef, he thinks—from the cook tent, and he’s just wondering whether someone will think to bring him some supper before Castiel wakes up when Michael himself strolls into the clearing, a steaming bowl of what looks like beef and beans in one hand.  He’s shaved sometime in the last couple hours, even washed his hair by the look of it.  Changed his pants, too, if the lack of dried vomit on the pair he’s wearing now is any indication.  He looks as if he’s smartened himself up to go courting, and the realization that that’s probably just about what he thinks he’s done almost kills Dean’s appetite despite how good the food smells.

“You know,” Michael tells him quietly, squinting in the light of the setting sun as he crouches in front of Dean and extends the bowl of food, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d made a deal with the devil to keep this camp in such a state of chaos the past two days that I wouldn’t have time to breathe, much less to give you the attention you so deserve.” 

When Dean doesn’t reach out to take the bowl, unwilling to risk even inadvertent brushing of Michael’s fingers, the man shrugs, setting it down within easy reach of Dean and retreating a few feet.  When Dean still doesn’t touch it, only eyeing it suspiciously, Michael rolls his eyes and leans over, grabbing the bowl and shoveling a single spoonful into his own mouth ostentatiously, as if to demonstrate that it hasn’t been tampered with, before he sets the bowl back within Dean’s reach.  To be fair, given what’s been going around, Dean figures his concern would be reasonable even if it weren’t Michael himself bringing the food. 

Suspicions mollified, he finally reaches out to take the bowl, speaking up only after he’s taken the first bite.  It’s damn good.  If Cook weren’t a Novak (not to mention pushing 70, according to Cas), he’d be plotting to take the fellow with him if Castiel somehow manages to concoct the magical escape he’s implied he’s planning.

“You can’t seriously be blamin’ a man who’s spent the past three days trussed up like a chicken for whatever the hell’s been going on around here the past 48 hours,” Dean says, squinting incredulously and pretending for all the world like his heart ain’t pounding at the mere suggestion that Michael suspects the last two nights are anything but coincidence.

Michael shrugs a little, chuckling in a way that would be charming, even appealing if he weren’t, y’know, evil incarnate, “Of course not,” he says good-naturedly, “but it’s been mighty convenient for you nonetheless.  Thought you might like to know, however,” he adds, and his lips curve upward a little more in a smile that’s a good deal more unsettling, “that there won’t be any interruptions tonight.  I’ve suspended whiskey rations for the night, and made sure Cook didn’t put so much as a single bite of any vegetation at all into tonight’s dinner.  Not a single man here will be gettin’ rowdy tonight.  They’ll all just be going to bed early like the tuckered out fellas they are, and I’m betting they’re gonna sleep nice and solid.  Leave us more than enough opportunity to really make up for lost time.” 

Dean works hard to swallow his latest bite of dinner past the lump of unease rapidly growing in his throat.  Michael sure seems to be getting out ahead of any potential problems, and Dean can’t begin to imagine that Cas has yet another ace up his sleeve with Michael so attuned to the camp.  Whatever hope he had is starting to wane, and with it he feels the horror and dread start to creep up the back of his neck once more.  Michael watches him for a long moment, waiting to see whether Dean’s got anything to say in return, smiling just a little.  When Dean keeps his silence, Michael shrugs and gets to his feet.  “Just thought I’d stop by, bring you some dinner, make sure you’ve got lots of energy for the evening,” he says.  “Be seeing you, Dean.  Right around moonrise.”

He turns and strolls off then, in no real hurry. 

It takes Dean a long time to finish his dinner.

* * *

The moon has just breached the horizon when the crunch of footfalls approach the clearing, and despite Dean’s best hopes, this time it’s not Castiel who turns up, lantern in hand. 

It’s Michael himself.

The men are still getting settled toward bed, so they’ve got a little while to wait before they can ‘get on with it,’ or so Michael informs Dean in a friendly sort of way as he settles back against the same wagon wheel Cas seems to favor.  Dean chooses to keep his silence again, not responding to any of Michael’s efforts to strike up conversation.  He can see it’s irritating the other man, which maybe ain’t so smart of Dean, but what the hell’s he got to say to a man who’s set on violating him at least once more before ultimately killing him?  It ain’t exactly a situation that invites camaraderie, no matter how much Michael weirdly seems to want it.

The moon rises slowly and the camp winds down for the night.  Dean can see Michael’s impatience grow as the men trickle by to use the latrine for the last time before bedding down.  Dean’s despair grows, and he’s just hoping that he’ll be able to check out again when Michael’s on top of him when one of the young men, hardly more than a boy, really, comes hurrying into the clearing.  Michael scowls at him, and the boy fidgets a little, shrinking into himself.

 _“Well?”_ Michael demands, “you’re here rather than in your tent for a reason, Jeremiah.  What the hell do you need?”

Jeremiah rushes across the clearing and leans down, muttering in Michael’s ear for a long moment.  Michael’s face darkens as he listens, a scowl overtaking his brow.  “Damn it all to _hell,”_ he hisses, and Jeremiah flinches so hard he falls over.  Michael sighs, seeing this, and catches Jeremiah’s arm, pulling him to his feet.  “Don’t fret, Jer,” Michael tells him, damn near kindly.  “It ain’t your fault.  You did the right thing, comin’ to tell me.  I’ll go see what’s what.  I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that.”  The kindness he displays to a scared kid is such a bizarre contrast to the monster Dean knows is at his core that he’s left reeling a bit as Michael goes on.  “Go get Bart and send him to join me, then rouse Castiel and tell him to come take watch while I tend to this.  After you’ve done that, you can head to bed.”

Michael ruffles the young man’s hair, earning a wan smile from Jeremiah, who heads back the way he came.  Michael turns to Dean, then, all trace of avuncular kindness gone from his face.  “Don’t get too excited,” he says darkly, “as soon as I get this sorted, I’m comin’ right back.”

He’s off into the darkness a moment later, and from deep inside, where he thought it was long extinguished, Dean feels a tiny flicker of hope kindle back to life.

* * *

Dean waits for a good quarter hour before Castiel’s familiar footfalls emerge into the clearing.  He’s prepared for Cas to offer still another series of coy implications about whatever’s gone wrong tonight, ready to laugh at whatever the disaster is, but the look on Castiel’s face stops him short.  The man’s face is drawn, brows knit together in clear distress, and he’s actually wringing his hands.

“Cas?” Dean demands, the words Michael was so eager to get out of him spilling readily in the presence of the man he’s come to think of as friend, confidante, protector and maybe a little bit something else, too.  “What is it?  What’s wrong?”

“I—” Castiel shakes his head, folding to the ground beside a tree catty-corner to Dean, dropping his face and then lifting it again, looking to Dean almost imploringly.  “I didn’t have a choice,” he says.  “Michael was so determined to see to it that the camp was in good order tonight and I—I had to.  I didn’t want to, but it was the only way to get him away from you.”

“Didn’t want to what, Cas,” Dean says a little more urgently, trying to figure out what exactly Cas has done that’s so terrible.  He has to have killed someone, as distressed as he is.

“It’s—it’s the horses,” Cas whispers, face twisted in self-recrimination.  “Sword and Buddy.  Michael and Bart’s mounts.”

“Holy shit,” Dean whispers back, trying not to recoil in his own horror.  “You _killed_ their horses?”

Cas’s bowed head jerks up.  “What?” He says blankly.

“What?” Dean echoes just as blankly, head tipping in confusion.

“Did I— _kill_ their horses?  Good god, no.  I gave ‘em diarrhea.  What the hell is wrong with you?” Cas demands, face stricken.

“What the hell is wrong with _me?_  What the hell is wrong with _you?”_ Dean hisses back, “You come in here looking like you’re in mourning for your mother, telling me _it was the only way_ , what was I supposed to think?”

“Not that I’d _killed_ them,” Cas insists, looking so scandalized that Dean momentarily expects him to pull out a vial of smelling salts.  The mental picture this inspires is ridiculous enough that Dean has to bite back on the sudden and inappropriate urge to laugh.

“Well,” Dean replies, “the trots ain’t exactly at the top of my list for why people show up looking wracked with guilt.  I figured you musta done something more…permanent.”

“To helpless animals?” Cas demands, horrified, “I would _never.”_

“I didn’t think so,” Dean says in total exasperation, “which is why I sounded so shocked.”

“Oh,” Cas says.  “Well—okay, then.”

“Okay, then,” Dean echoes, and they subside into silence for a long moment, before Dean has to ask.  “Diarrhea?  You gave their horses diarrhea?”

“Diarrhea,” Cas confirms, that hangdog look once again crossing his face, as if he’s in mourning for a small child lost to illness rather than guilty at giving a horse the runs, and that’s about all it takes.

He feels like an ass before it even happens, but the tension that’s been building up in Dean for the past six hours finally breaks, and he loses it entirely.  He has to bury his face in his own arm lest his laughter bring men running from the surrounding tents, and after a few moments, he hears the soft sound of Cas joining him, a little unwillingly.  They laugh for what feels like a long time, and just when Dean thinks he’s about to get himself under control, Cas sobers long enough to say with mournful resonance, "it’s really not funny, though,” and forget it, that does Dean in again.

Dean laughs so hard his stomach hurts, his lip splits open again, and he’s wiping tears out of his eyes, and to his credit, Cas waits him out with apparent patience.  

“I’m sorry,” Dean tells him, finally hiccupping himself into some semblance of calm, “it’s really not.  I don’t know what got into me.”

Cas shrugs in a way that says he’s not holding it against Dean none.  “You’ve had a rough week.  I think you’re allowed to react a mite oddly from time to time.”

“So,” Dean says, wiping his eyes on his sleeve one last time, “why don’t you start from the beginning and I’ll tell you whether it’s really as bad as you think it is.”

“I had a few ideas,” Cas tells him readily, more than willing to tell the whole sordid tale, as his conscience apparently needs assuaging, “for what kind of mishaps might happen tonight, but Michael got the camp in such tight order that there was no way to rile up the men again.  Didn’t leave me a whole lot of choice.  I couldn’t destroy enough property to cause real problems without someone seeing.  The horses were about the only other thing I could come up with.”

“Makes sense,” Dean says encouragingly, “so what’d you do?”

“Oleander,” Cas says sadly.  “Was the only thing I knew of I could get my hands on that, in the right amount, could make ‘em plenty sick without putting ‘em in any real danger.  I’ve seen horses get into it before and it—it ain’t pretty.”

“No it ain’t,” Dean agrees.  He’s seen the same thing.  It’ll kill a horse or a human in large enough quantities, but non-lethal doses will still cause a serious case of the squirts.  He feels for the horses in question, he really does, but— “Cas, I know you feel bad,” he says, “but—”

“Of course, I feel bad,” Cas cuts him off, again breaking out the scandalized face that Dean probably ought not to find as funny as he does, “I made them _sick,_ Dean.  The poor things don’t understand what’s happening to them or why, they just know they feel awful, and I did that to them.”

“True,” Dean says, nodding, “but we know they’re gonna be just fine given time, right?”

“Right,” Cas says sadly, “as long as they’re kept hydrated and they get enough nutrients.”

“And don’t you think Michael and Bart are gonna make sure those horses are well-tended until they’re back to normal?”

“Likely,” Cas agrees in a small voice, and Dean snorts.

“Ain’t no love lost between me and those two men, if that’s what you want to call them, but even I know they love their horses as much as any self-respecting man does.  They’ll take good care of them.  I’m sure Sword and—what, Buddy?” he confirms, going on when Cas nods confirmation, “—Buddy are getting the best care possible as we speak.”

“Well,” Cas says, suddenly looking a little shifty-eyed, “yes, but—”

“But…?” Dean prompts, and just as Cas glances back over toward the edge of camp, a huge ruckus breaks out.  There’s the shrill scream of a horse, several loud crashes, and then sound of men shouting.  Dean squints and, in the glow of the moonlight, just manages to make out the form of an enormous brown stallion, stampeding right through a tent.  There are three men around him, trying to calm him, and just as it looks like they’ve succeeded and have started to herd him back toward where the rest of the horses are tethered,  Dean watches in disbelief as his tail lifts to emit a spray of thick, foul liquid all over the pair of men at his rear and the remains of the last tent he crashed through.

Dean stares, open-mouthed, then slowly turns back toward Cas, gesturing wordlessly at the chaos erupting across camp.  Castiel hangs his head.  “Sword got bit by a snake a couple years back,” he says guiltily.  “He’s awful spooked by ‘em ever since.  Somebody…may have dropped a garter snake near where he was tethered.  And seen to it that he weren’t fastened as tight as maybe he ought to have been.”

“That—that was Michael’s tent he just charged through,” Dean says faintly, “wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Cas confirms.  “And also—that was Michael at his back.”

“You know, Cas,” Dean says, shoulders starting to shake again, “Kindly remind me to never get on your bad side.”

By the time the men, two of them dripping in liquid horseshit, have corralled Sword carefully back where he belongs, Cas is laughing silently right along with Dean.

* * *

Near on an hour goes by before Dean catches a glimpse of Michael and Bart a good twenty yards off, trudging toward the horse trough with an empty bucket, both covered in a liberal spray of foulness.

“Looks as though they’re like to be busy with their mounts—and, uh, clean-up all night,” Dean suggests.  Cas’s lips twist upward a little bit, wryly. 

“Seems so,” Cas agrees, then settles back against his tree a little more comfortably, crossing his arms over his chest.  “You might as well catch some sleep while you can.  I’ll keep an eye on things.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Dean tells him before he closes his eyes.  “Sword and Buddy will be just fine.”

“I know,” Cas says quietly.  Before he gives in to sleep, Dean can’t help but turn his mind briefly to Baby, his sweet mare.  He ain’t seen her around the camp, and Michael would never have condoned the murder of such a fine mount, no matter who she belonged to.  She must have gotten away, and she knew her way back to the compound.  _She’s fine,_ Dean tells himself, _that bullet barely grazed her.  Benny’ll have her good as new already.  She’s fine._ He can’t even allow himself to consider the alternative.

Hell, he hasn’t really allowed himself to think about Jeb yet neither, nor the wound Garth took and how serious it might be.  There’s just no sense in borrowing from problems he can’t do nothing about, especially when he’s got more than enough of them to keep him occupied right here.

Resolutely turning his mind away from the loved ones whose fate he doesn’t know—and those he does, Dean lets his exhaustion rise up to meet him and carry him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No horses were harmed in the making of this chapter. Castiel, however, was deeply traumatized.


	13. Chapter 13

**Sunday, September 16, 1899**

He wakes near dawn to find Cas oddly keyed up.  The man won’t speak on why, just says to ‘stay alert and be ready today,’ as if that was any real explanation.  Dean doesn’t argue though, just does as he’s told.  If there’s to be an escape, he gathers, it’ll happen today or tonight.

Honestly, it’s no more than rotten luck in the end.  Dean won’t remember the joke he made an hour later.  Whatever it was, it weren’t hardly funny to begin with, but underslept, still stressed about the damn horses, and anxious about whatever plans he’s cooking up for later, it struck Cas as hilarious, and his laughter in turn struck Dean as hilarious.  Their chuckles were quiet, but not quiet enough to go unnoticed by Uriel as he passed toward the latrine. 

They sober up right quick at the sight of him, standing across the clearing and glaring down at them, but Uriel doesn’t say a single word.  He just stalks off into the grey dawn.

“Shit,” Cas breathes, and Dean can’t think of any better way to sum it up.

They’re still seated there in tense silence thirty seconds later when Michael strides into the clearing, Uriel in his wake.

“A word, if you please, Castiel,” Michael says pleasantly, and Castiel stands immediately.  His eyes linger on Dean’s for just a moment before he turns to go, and even through the dim light, Dean can see the apology in his gaze.

Michael and Cas vanish into the main camp.

Castiel does not return.

* * *

Michael shoulda known better than to leave Castiel on watch.  The worthless sodomite ain’t much use for anything but job strategies and grunt work, and leaving him to watch over another deviant was a foolish decision Michael won’t be making again.

He gives Castiel the sharp side of his tongue for at least ten minutes, then summons Jeremiah with a holler.  The kid comes quickly. 

“Jeremiah, you’re to keep an eye on the prisoner today.  Castiel will be taking over your errands.”  The kid looks disappointed—a trip to town is far preferable to sitting around with a chained-up man for hours on end, but he’s a good fellow and he’ll do as he’s told.  Castiel, standing stone still, face a solid mask, waits in silence to hear what Michael’s sending him to do.  “The train heist,” Michael says, and Castiel nods in understanding.  “We’re set for it two days hence, after Zachariah gets back, but I want confirmation that the gold will actually be traveling that day.  You recall what happened last time we hit the train?”

“Shipment we expected had been sent a day earlier.  We didn’t get more than a couple of watches off of passengers and some luggage for our troubles,” Castiel responds, his voice near on a monotone, shut down hard after the upbraiding Michael just gave him.

“Well, go on.  Get out of here.  Shouldn’t take you more’n two or three hours if you ride fast, and see that you don’t rouse any suspicions.  You may be a deviant but I know you got enough brains to be subtle.”

“Yessir,” Castiel says, and his face is still as blank as ever when Michael sends him off toward the paddock to mount his steed.  No doubt he’s exhausted after being on watch all night, but if he wanted to spend the day in his bed, he shouldn’t have gotten overly friendly with the prisoner.  Least he can do is make himself useful in a way that counts in payment for yet another sin.

Not ten minutes later, the pounding of hooves heralds Castiel riding out toward town and the train depot.  Sighing, Michael heads for Uriel’s tent.  His own is a total loss, and he can catch some shut-eye until Castiel returns with news.  Then, tonight, he and Winchester will finally have their next rendezvous.  It’ll have to be tonight, because Zachariah returns tomorrow and that’s when Dean’s stay of execution will expire.

It’s a bit of a waste, he reflects, to destroy something so lovely, but at least Dean Winchester will no longer plague Michael’s mind once he’s dead.

* * *

Cas rides hard across the plains, his mare Amelia happy to have the opportunity to get out and run for the first time in several days.

His plans, so carefully concocted, lie in ruins now thanks to his own careless stupidity.  Of all the ways to get found out and pulled off watch, laughing with Dean is maybe the most easily avoidable thing that could’ve happened.  Even his back-up plan is now useless, seeing as there’s no way he’ll be placed back on watch tonight, no chance of being able to sneak off with Dean while the rest of the camp sleeps.

Things seem awful hopeless, but Cas ain’t the giving up type, and as he rides, he thinks. He puzzles.  He considers.  He looks at the situation from every angle, and then he finds a few new angles and starts over.

It doesn’t come to him until Carson, the young man at the train depot (one, incidentally, who Castiel’s had a rendezvous or three with in the past, something that’s right convenient at the moment even if he has no intention of renewing their acquaintance today) readily confirms in the context of a friendly chat that there’s a train scheduled to come through in two days’ time with tighter security than usual

When the plan finally occurs, it pops up fast and fully formed, and Castiel doesn’t hesitate.  He can’t afford to.

The repercussions of the decision he’s making will reverberate through the Novak gang—or whatever’s left of it—for years after Castiel and Dean are either long escaped or long dead, depending upon how things go, but Cas can’t seem to bring himself to care a whole lot.  Leaning in close, he whispers that he’s got a tip for Carson.  “I’m a Novak,” he tells Carson, and watches as the man’s eyes widen in shock.  “Don’t be scared,” he tells him hastily, “I’m leaving the gang.  They found out—what I am,” he says, swallowing hard and sending a word of gratitude toward the sky that it happened to be Carson working the depot today.  How else could he have made the tale he’s about to spin believable?  Carson’s eyes widen in understanding and then narrow in sympathy.

“They exile you?” Carson asks softly.  Jophiel, thrown out of the Novak gang going on twelve years ago after being caught with a man by Zachariah, lives not far away.  Carson must be acquainted with him, must know how the Novaks deal with sodomites in their midst.

“They’re fixing to,” Cas says, and it’s not exactly a lie, so he doesn’t feel bad, “but they ain’t been so good to me along the way, neither, and I mean to see to it that justice gets served.  I’m on my way back to camp now, and I’m gonna tell them that shipment of gold—yes,” he adds as Carson’s eyes widen, “I know about the gold coming through from California—is coming through this evening and not on Tuesday.  If you get on the wire awful quick, maybe you can see to it that the train picks up a whole mess of US Marshals in Kansas City.  If I’m not mistaken, there are warrants out for a number of my kin, and I do believe the Marshals would appreciate the information.”  Castiel can see the moment when Carson fully believes him, and although he maintains his equanimity, inside he’s singing.

“You know,” Carson says, “there’s quite the reward out for a few of them.  You’d be entitled to that if you gave the tip that resulted in their capture.”

The decision ain’t even hard.  “Nah,” Cas says, “you take it.  It’d be blood money for me and I don’t want it.  I’m off tonight and I don’t expect to be seen around these parts anytime soon.”

“You sure?” Carson says, awe in his voice.  If Uriel, Michael, Daniel, and a few of the other men are all taken or killed, the boy will be due more than $1000 dollars, a virtual fortune.

“I’m sure,” Cas confirms, smiling a little.  Carson’s a good sort of fellow.  “Just do me a favor.  Split it with Jophiel, would you?”

Carson smiles right back.  “I’ll do that,” he says, and Castiel believes him.  Men like them have a kind of camaraderie; a solidarity born of the knowledge that most of the world rejects them.  “Don’t seem like I’ll be seeing you again, Cassidy,” Carson tells him, using the sham first name that Cas uses in town.  All the men have alternate names they use in their acquaintance with civilians.  Makes it a hell of a lot less likely that somebody gets it in their head to call the law on you.

“Castiel.  My real name is Castiel Novak,” Cas tells him, suddenly struck by the need to be seen as himself, just for a moment, before he sheds the name of Novak once and for all, though whether in death or by choice, he don’t yet know.  “And I don’t suppose you will, but it’s been a pleasure knowing you, Carson.”

“And you, Castiel,” Carson says, his warm brown eyes smiling just a little.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, it seems I’ve got some very important information to wire to the law in Kansas City.” 

“You do,” Cas confirms, grinning, and then turns to leave.

“Hey—Cas?” Carson calls, and Cas turns back to him, a brow raised.  “Godspeed, wherever your journey takes you.”

Cas grins.  Whether he dies today or lives, free of the weight of this family, he’s finally taking steps as his own man, and he’s pretty sure he has God’s blessing in that indeed.  He sketches Carson a wave and then he’s out the door, mounting Amelia again and heading back toward the camp with all quickness.  This evening’s train is due to cross the rendezvous spot Cas himself laid out for Zachariah in about six hours, and it’ll take most of that time for the gang to get themselves together if they mean to ride out and rob it—or think that’s what they’re doing, at any rate.

He’s gotta get word to them as quickly as he can, and hope like hell that Michael takes the bait.

On the way back, he pushes Amelia harder than he’d like to, but every detail has to be laid out perfect if this is to work, and coming back with a lathered horse is a piece of that.  She’s in good shape, despite the past few days of little activity.  She can handle it and be rested up again in just a few hours, when Castiel will need her once more—this time to flee his kin for good.

* * *

“Michael!”  He ain’t been asleep for more than a couple hours when the yell breaks out across the camp.  He comes awake quick—you gotta be able to in this life, on his feet before he’s fully alert.  He scans the camp, looking for the source of the noise.  “Michael!” The shout comes again, and it’s Castiel, on the outskirts of camp, out of breath and just dismounting from that nag he loves so much. 

The boy is back a bit earlier than Michael expected him, by the angle of the sun.  He must’ve pushed Amelia hard, and Michael feels his impatience with Castiel rise.  He’s trying to make up for his earlier failures but all he’s done is interrupt some of the precious little sleep Michael was gonna be able to catch.

“The hell are you hollering about?” Michael demands, stalking across the camp to meet Castiel as he rushes closer.  A few of the nearer men linger in the vicinity, apparently hoping to hear Michael give Castiel still another dressing down.  “If your braying unsettles Sword or Buddy I’ll flay the skin right off your back, those horses need to be resting.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel pants, his face red and sweat trickling down from underneath his hat, “But—the train,” he pauses, bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, and Michael scowls. 

“What about the goddamn train?” he nearly yells, “The thing ain’t due for two fuckin days, Castiel, and here you are—”

“No,” Castiel says, standing up and meeting Michael’s eyes, a plea on his face, “That’s what I’m tryin to tell you.  It’s tonight.  They’re sending the gold tonight instead, trying to get out ahead of any plans for thievery.  Boy at the station let it slip.”

“And why the hell would he do that?” Michael demands, narrowing his eyes on Castiel, but his heart has started to pound.  This job, meant for two days hence, is set to be one of the most lucrative ones they’ve pulled in half a decade.  It’ll fund the running of the entire compound for years if they can pull it off.  If the schedule really has been changed, they’re short a few men and even shorter on time, but there can be no question of skipping the job.  It’s simply too big a take to pass on.

“He—we—” Castiel looks at Michael imploringly, his face begging Michael not to make him say it, or at least not to make him say it here, in front of the other men.  Michael can guess exactly what those two words imply.

“You what?” Michael snaps, unwilling to be merciful, and Castiel’s shoulders slump.

“He and I are—acquainted,” he mumbles, and Michael ought to beat him within an inch of his life for the admission that he’s carried on with his unnatural activities even after being punished soundly for it some years past.

Setting that aside, although Michael resolves to come back to it later, he finds that he believes Castiel.  All kinds of secrets pass between lovers, and now that Michael thinks on it, he _has_ seen Castiel chatting more than once with the same fellow at the train depot, his face animated in a way it never is here at camp and among his kin.

“Don’t think that you and I won’t be having a conversation about that later,” Michael tells Castiel in a dark undertone, and Castiel flinches visibly, then nods, hanging his head.  Michael turns away from him in dismissal, breathing in deep and bellowing for all the camp to hear.  “Men!  Campfire, now!”

He may not be Zachariah, but the men know he’s to be obeyed, and they jump to right quick.  It don’t take five minutes before everyone is gathering around, and Michael’s so focused on making sure he remembers the details of the plan and can think how to modify them to account for fewer men that he scarce notices that Castiel is still at his elbow until the other man plucks hesitantly at his sleeve.

“Michael,” he says, and there’s hesitance to his voice and some kind of hope underlying it that Michael looks forward to learning how to crush.

“What the hell do you need now?” Michael asks, and Castiel swallows hard, backing up half a step.

“Do you—could I—since I’m the one who brought the tip, who found out, I think I should be allowed to come on the job,” he says, and Michael can see the effort it takes him to say this, how much it costs him to bravely insist that he be given this right.

Castiel’s rarely allowed along on jobs—not because he’d be useless, he’s a good shot and a fast rider, but because he barely counts as a member of the gang, but for his use in planning raids.  It doesn’t surprise Michael that he might be chafing at the menial jobs he’s mostly relegated to.  A man of his cleverness may well be wasted as a grunt, but that’s his own damn fault for being what he is.

Their time is short, but Michael has time enough to indulge himself on this.  He turns, squinting, and frowns at Castiel.  “Oh, you think so, do you?” he says, keeping his voice calm, reasonable, as if he’s considering it.

“I—could be useful.  You’re down a few men since Zachariah and his crew ain’t back yet,” Castiel says stubbornly.  This is true enough, but still.

“We are,” Michael confirms, “but seems to me you should’ve thought of that before you decided to get friendly with a Winchester.  You ain’t fit for the simplest job I could think to give you, and you think I’m gonna put my life in your hands by bringing you along on a job this big?”

The hope that had started to bloom in Castiel’s eyes is fading fast, and Michael relishes the sight of its death.

“But I’ve never—”

“Shut your mouth,” Michael says, and Castiel’s lips snap shut.  “No, you ain’t coming.  You’re gonna stay right here.”

“You want me to watch the prisoner aga—”

“I said to shut your mouth!” Michael roars, and Castiel skitters back a step, eyes wide, silenced.

“The hell you will.  Buddy ain’t rideable in his state, so Bart can stay back and watch Winchester.  No, your job is to scrub the horseshit off my tent.  It’ll need new poles, but it’s a good tent and I don’t fancy having to throw it out altogether.  By the time we get back, I want it to look good as new.  _That_ is your job, Castiel.  You keep an eye on Sword and Buddy, and you clean up my tent, and then the rest of the shit sprayed all over this godforsaken camp.  You understand me?”

“Michael, ple—”

“I _said_ do you understand me?” Michael says, his tone threatening, and Castiel breaks, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“I understand, sir,” he says, and Michael nods once, then smiles slowly.

“I will, however, be takin’ your mount.  Sword ain’t near recovered enough for a job like this, so there you go, Castiel.  You are gonna be useful after all.”  Without waiting for a reply, Michael turns his back.  He’s got a job to prepare for.


	14. Chapter 14

**Sunday, September 16, 1899**

Yet again, something big is happening in the Novak camp, and Dean doesn’t have half a clue what it is.  He heard the thunder of hooves shortly after Castiel was escorted off, and could dimly see Cas riding away.  The young man who was sent to watch Dean instead, Jeremiah, doesn’t say much and practically jumps a mile when Dean speaks up to voice a need for the latrine, but he don’t forbid Dean to go, so at least there’s that.  He even brings Dean something to eat and some water upon being reminded that these are things humans generally need, but not until getting Uriel’s permission to do so.

More than two hours after Castiel rode off, he returns, and Dean finds relief blossoming in his chest.  He don’t know what he thought, but he was worried that dusty glimpse of him riding away was the last he’d ever see of Castiel—likely the last he’d ever see of any friendly face, and that was a grim proposition.

Cas seems to be in quite a state, though.  His shouts for Michael carry readily across the camp, and it’s not but moments thereafter that Dean hears Michael’s voice in turn, hollering for the men to gather up.

The activity around the tents rises to a fever pitch thereafter, and soon enough even young Jeremiah is called away.

At this point Dean’s just hoping for two minutes with Cas, long enough to find out whether he’s okay and what the hell has the camp in such a state, but there’s no sign of him.  He searches the area he can see carefully, and eventually thinks a lone figure crouched by the area Sword stampeded through last night might be Cas, but it’s too far to tell for certain.

Several hours pass.  The activity doesn’t slow, and nobody will pause long enough to tell Dean what the hell is going on.  He gets told to shut the fuck up a time or two, and once, after he makes enough of a ruckus for long enough, somebody throws a canteen that still has a bit of water in it at his head (thankfully, cause he was right thirsty), but that’s as much information as he has.

The placement of the sun and Dean’s rumbling stomach suggest it’s somewhere between three and four when all the activity seems to coalesce.  The men tramp past in rapid succession to use the latrine, all of them strapped to the hilt with gleaming guns, hats firmly on their heads and bandanas hanging round their necks.  They look ready for a job, is what they look like, but nobody including Cas mentioned anything like a job going on today, and Dean feels like it’s not something Cas would have just…omitted, as much talking as they’ve done the past few days.

His suspicions seem confirmed when damn near every horse in the place is saddled up.  The exceptions seem to be Sword and the horse Dean assumes is Buddy, still recovering in a makeshift paddock to one side of camp, and a couple older-looking horses who are likely kept for the purposes of pulling supply wagons.

The camp empties out in a jiffy, the men mounting their horses and riding out, and still Dean doesn’t actually know what the hell’s going on.  A lone figure still crouches across the way in the wreckage of Sword’s path, and enough squinting demonstrates a repetitive motion that looks to be scrubbing.  Dean can add two and two and come to the conclusion that it is indeed Castiel, set to the task of scrubbing the foulness that Sword left all over her path of destruction, and Dean dares to hope that it’s only the two of them as have been left behind.

He’s just drawn in a breath to call for Cas when a figure a good deal less welcome comes around the side of a tent.

It’s Bart, and he’s got a scowl on his face that speaks clearly of how little he wants to be here.

“Listen the fuck up, scum,” he hisses, and Dean leans back a little, quirking his brows in pleasant inquiry, because honestly, pissing off Bart is some of the most fun Dean’s gotten to have in days.  Bart sneers at him, clearly reading that he’s being mocked, but he goes on nevertheless.  “Stuck back here with you and that horseshit covered abomination,” he says, jerking a thumb in the direction of Castiel, “is about the last place I want to be.  I ought to be out there, backing up Michael, but Buddy can’t be ridden just now, which means I’ve gotten stuck with the only task maybe worse than cleaning up horseshit.   So here’s what’s gonna happen.  You’re gonna sit right there, and you’re not gonna move, and you’re not gonna make noise, and just maybe if you don’t piss me off too much, I’ll water you and let you go to the latrine.  Don’t count on being fed, though.  The rest of them may think you’re worth the waste of good meals, but I don’t.  The bell’s gonna be tolling for thee sometime tomorrow anyway,” he finishes, a vicious glimmer in his eyes.  Then he sets himself down in the clearing and pulls out both of his guns.  He rests one near his knee, a clear threat, then takes the other apart and starts to clean it with the same kind of attention Dean gives to his weapons.

And that’s just about the time that Dean realizes he _recognizes_ the guns Bart’s holding, and they damn sure don’t belong to him.

“Those are my fuckin’ guns,” Dean says, outraged, unable to restrain himself, and Bart’s eyes flick upward, a mean little smile crossing his lips.

“Wondered when you’d notice that.  They’re my guns now.  Dead men don’t need weapons, or ain’t you heard?  I was in need of new revolvers anyway, and these are a good deal finer than my old ones.  Rest assured, they’ll get a lot of use.  If you’re lucky, maybe the barrel of one of ‘em will be the last thing you get to see.  But I thought I told you to be silent.  Guess you just lost water privileges,” he says with a nasty grin.

Dean subsides into furious silence, steeping in the rage of watching those much-loved guns, a gift from his Pop, in the hands of Bartholomew Novak.  The sun beats down on them, and he’s getting thirstier as the minutes drag by.

But he ain’t gonna give the man the satisfaction of saying so.

* * *

Half an hour’s ride outside of camp, Michael makes what he knows is his goddamn stupidest decision yet with regards to Dean Winchester.

This job is maybe the most important thing the gang’s done in ages, and the successful execution of it without Zachariah could bring Michael a hell of a lot of respect—not to mention an especially handsome portion of the money.

And yet.

Zachariah and his men are like to be back first thing tomorrow, now at the outside edge of when they were expected to return, and as soon as Zachariah gets back, the first order of business will be doing away with Dean Winchester and making sure his battered remains are found by his kin.  And that means Michael is just about out of time.

He can’t bank on having tonight—and not only because he’s so tired he damn near can’t see straight at this point.  By the time they’re done with the train and make it back to camp, it’ll be late, and the men will all still need to eat.  The adrenaline will be running high after a hopefully successful job, and by the time most of the men retire to their bedrolls, Zachariah, Lucifer, and the rest may well be riding into camp.  He simply can’t count on a window of opportunity to really take his time with Dean, the way he’s been unable to except for that first night.

And he cannot stomach the idea of letting Dean Winchester go to his grave unsullied by Michael’s hands.  He wants Dean to feel Michael’s seed dripping down his thighs as he faces down the bullet that will take his life.  He wants Dean to go to his death with his ass still burning from the insult Michael has done to it.

And he’s out of time.

It’s mad to even consider it, but a half hour outside of camp Michael finds himself pulling Amelia up, cursing loud enough for Uriel, riding near his side, to hear.

Uriel slows, too, frowning as Michael hops down and makes as if to inspect Amelia’s foot, turning her so that Uriel can’t see what he’s looking at it.

“God _damnit,”_ Michael swears, pounding a fist on the saddle, then stroking the horse’s muzzle to soothe her as she startles. 

“What’s—” Uriel begins, and Michael interrupts.

“She’s thrown a fucking shoe.  Should’ve known Castiel wouldn’t tend to his mount properly.  If I try to ride her all the way through this job short a shoe—”

“Reasonable chance she falls lame and either you end up caught or she has to be put down when all is said and done,” Uriel agrees, and Michael nods, cursing again, working hard to sell it.

“What do you wanna do about it?” Uriel asks, squinting, and Michael throws his head back, as if in too much frustration to bear.

“I’ll have to take her back to camp,” he says, and Uriel blinks in surprise.

“You could just take one of the other mounts from the men—” he says, sounding a little confused, and Michael shakes his head, thinking fast.

“First Sword and now this?  I think the Good Lord’s sending me a message and it’s time I listened to Him.  He’s telling me that this job is yours, cousin.  You’re more than ready for a big one.”

“You—really?” Uriel says, his face lighting up at the idea of being the one to bring this home successfully.

“Is it what I want?  Well, no, not particularly, but we know better than to turn a blind eye when the Lord sends us a message, don’t we?”

“We do, at that,” Uriel agrees eagerly.  Of course, he’s all for it.  “I won’t let you down,” he says, face set with intentness and excitement, and Michael feels a hint of wistfulness at missing what’s sure to be a hell of a job, even as he glories in the knowledge that he’s managed this.  He’s going to have untold hours in an entirely deserted camp with which to take his time with Dean Winchester, just as soon as he sends Bart and Castiel on ahead to meet the returning men halfway with the carthorses.  Nothing suspicious about it—it’s only smart to have them rendezvous with the men and help transport the gold the rest of the way back to camp.

“I know you won’t,” he says.  “I’ll send Castiel and Bart out to meet you around Pine Ridge with the cart, help you bring the take back the rest of the way without exhausting the horses too bad.  Gold weighs a hell of a lot.”

“Good thought,” Uriel says approvingly.

“Well,” Michael says, “Better go on and tell the men that you’re the one leading them on this run.”  He motions ahead to where the rest of the men have pulled up two hundred yards onward, realizing that Michael and Uriel had fallen back, and Uriel nods, giving Michael a brief smile before wheeling his mount around and pounding away.

Michael waits, watching until Uriel meets up with the men.  When they collectively turn their heads to look back at him, he raises a hand both in farewell and in benediction.  He earns a collective wave in return, then turns his back and starts walking back toward camp, leading Amelia by the reins.  A moment later, he hears the pounding of hooves start up again.  He doesn’t turn around until the noise has retreated into silence, until he can see the cloud of dust that heralds their passage far off on the horizon and getting smaller.  Only then, when he can be sure none will see his duplicity, does Michael again mount Amelia, whose shoes are just fine (although they won’t be after he takes a moment to pry one off once he’s finished with Dean, before the men get back.  It would be noticed if she didn’t need to be taken to the compound blacksmith once they’re back home, after such a public announcement that she’d thrown a shoe), and ride back toward the camp.

Only once he can see the specks of tents in the distance does he again dismount, leading her on foot back into camp, just in case Bart is looking.

He can already feel himself starting to swell in his pants, anticipation quickening his breath.  Not only will he get untold hours in which to have Dean all to himself, he has the light of day to really see what he’s doing.  To watch as he digs bruises into Dean’s hips, as the man’s face crumples in pain and humiliation.

He’s so wrapped up in his imaginings that it takes him at least half a second to realize what he’s looking at when he first approaches the clearing that’s harbored Dean Winchester for five days now, and at least another few seconds to believe it.

It only takes him another second to draw both of his guns.

* * *

_Five Minutes Earlier_

Bart is so focused on cleaning Dean’s guns (muttering as if Dean didn’t take perfect care of them, to add insult to injury), that he doesn’t notice Castiel walking up to the clearing.  Dean, who’s been looking anywhere other than at his guns in Bart’s hands, does see it, but the single finger Castiel places against his own lips is a clear enough message for Dean not to draw attention to him.  His eyes lock with Cas’s for no more than a few seconds before he glances casually off to one side, tipping his head in what could be a meaningless gesture but is in fact a nod of acknowledgment.

Cas moves quietly, a filthy towel crusted in the kind of foulness Dean doesn’t want to imagine, let alone smell, draped over one arm and hand.

He takes his time, coming slowly and quietly around the side of the clearing, until he’s near head-on with Bart.  From the angle of things, Dean is able to watch them in silhouette as Cas suddenly speaks.  “Hey Bart,” he says loudly.  Bart jumps, then curses, snapping the last piece of Dean’s revolver back into place as he rises.

“Goddammit, Castiel, I’m pretty fuckin sure your instructions included not getting anywhere near—”

Dean can guess well enough, but he never gets to hear what Cas wasn’t supposed to do, because an only slightly muffled crack rings out through the air and suddenly the towel in Castiel’s hand is shivering, a hole at its center.  Dean follows the path of that hole quick enough to watch as Bart sways for an instant, then sits down hard, staring at his chest with an expression of bewilderment that almost exactly mirrors Jeb’s five long days ago.

“Holy shit,” Dean says, as Bartholomew Novak topples backward into the clearing, blood seeping from his chest and into the packed dirt beneath him, and then again, “holy _shit,_ Cas.”

“It ain’t like he were a good man,” Cas says defensively, and his total lack of distress over killing his cousin is so wildly different than his profound sorrow at giving two horses a brief case of diarrhea that Dean actually starts laughing.

“I ain’t arguing that,” he says between chuckles, “but you wanna fill me in on what I need to know?”

“The rest of them,” Cas says, dropping the towel and reholstering his gun as he moves over to Bart, rifling through his pockets with apparent indifference to the fact that his body is not only still warm but still oozing blood, “are off on a job.  They think.  Turns out the train they’re attempting to rob don’t actually have the shipment of gold they think it has.  Instead, it’s got a shipment of US marshals, who will be right happy to see a pack of Novaks with warrants out coming right to them.”

“You _didn’t,”_ Dean says, shock and admiration vying for dominance in his tone.  Cas looks up, finally brandishing a set of keys, and beckons Dean over.

“I surely did,” he says with a small smile, “And I’d do it again.  How about we get you unlocked?”

Dean stands up and shuffles forward, more than eager.  He’s just gone to his knees in front of Castiel in the dirt when a voice rings out from behind him.

“I’m gonna need you to drop those keys, Castiel,” Michael Novak says, “and put your hands up.”

Cas freezes, the keys in his hands halfway to Dean’s outstretched wrists, cursing quietly.  His eyes lift and Dean can see them settle on Michael, loathing and surprise intermingling.  He drops the keys and puts his hands up as ordered, which tells Dean pretty clearly that there’s something more dangerous than keys in Michael’s hands.  Dean can guess what it is.  “Why the hell are you—”

“—back so soon?  Seems the rest of the gang think poor Amelia’s thrown a shoe.  I had to come back or risk laming her.  Was gonna take over watch duty from poor Bart, but I see you had other plans.  Uriel’s taking point on the heist—only it sounds like there ain’t no heist to be had, is there?  I never would have thought you had it in you, Castiel, selling out the whole damn gang like that, but—”

Why, Dean wonders do they always _talk_ so much.  He swears every time he’s ever been in a bad situation, at the wrong end of a gun, he’s managed to get out of it because the damn fool starts monologuing.  Castiel is intelligent enough not to let his gaze waver from Michael, regardless of what Dean is doing, and Michael’s far enough away that Dean feels safe whispering in a tone quiet enough to drift no further than a foot or two before him.  “Sneeze,” he says.  “Count of three.”

It’s a hell of an odd command, but Castiel’s face doesn’t change, still focused on Michael, who seems to be going on about gratitude or some shit now.  Dean mouths the words silently. 

_One._ Castiel’s face twitches.  _Two._  Castiel’s nose screws up, just exactly as a man’s does before he sneezes.  _Three._ Cas sneezes, loud and distracting, and in the moment in which Michael is sure to be looking at him, Dean moves.

He’s been shooting since he was seven years old, and while the last time he shot at Michael Novak, he missed, this time he doesn’t.  His own gun, painstakingly pulled from the holster on Bart’s belt that so conveniently rested just before Dean, goes off as Dean whirls around.  It thunders not once, not twice, but six full times, and Michael’s gun goes off too, but the shot goes wild in the moments before Michael drops it.

He drops it because his hands have fallen to his groin, reaching for something that’s no longer there.

In truth, there don’t appear to be a whole lot below his waist other than his legs anymore, and certainly nothing between them.  Michael hits his knees, his eyes huge and skin white, and the femoral artery one of Dean’s bullets severed pumps itself dry in what feels like no more than thirty seconds.

Dean would have liked for Michael to have longer to feel the loss of the only weapon he ever got the better of Dean with.  He would have liked for Michael to take longer to bleed out, to wail and scream and gnash his teeth, but in the end he gets only this, and one other thing.

“Look at me,” he says, as soon as the thunder of gunshots has echoed into silence, and Michael, his face blank, lifts his head as if unable to resist.  Dean meets his eyes, and just before Michael falls forward onto his face, he speaks.  “I’d say I’ll see you in hell, but I think you’ll be surprised to find that only one of us is bound there, and it ain’t me.”

The crash of Michael’s body into the dirt is far quieter than the gunshots, virtually anticlimactic, but that don’t dim Dean’s satisfaction any.

Castiel stares at him with wide eyes.  “Holy shit,” he says, echoing Dean’s words from less than ten minutes ago.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “lots of that going around.”  Turning back toward Castiel, he sets his gun down and lifts his wrists.  “Now about those shackles?”


	15. Chapter 15

**Sunday, September 16 – Monday, September 17, 1899**

Odds are good that the camp will remain deserted for many hours to come—hell, there’s a reasonable chance none of the Novaks will make it back to camp at all, given the trap that Castiel laid for them—but neither of them is willing to risk being wrong about this, so they waste no time in getting the hell out of Dodge.

They ride out of camp no more than fifteen minutes later, Cas on Amelia—whose shoes are just fine, much to his relief—and Dean on the most energetic of the supply horses.  Bulging saddle-bags hang across Amelia’s back, packed stealthily in the half hour before Cas confronted Bart with murder on the agenda.  Dean makes a mental note never to get on Cas’s bad side—the man who repeatedly outsmarted and then coolly and unhesitatingly betrayed a huge chunk of his family is a man to be reckoned with.  The fact that the same man nearly ties himself into knots worrying about what to do with the remaining horses in the camp sparks tender feelings in Dean that there ain’t time to give voice to, much less focus on right now. 

After a brief discussion in which they are united in unwillingness to leave the horses tethered to die if nobody makes it back to tend to them, they ultimately opt to untie them, remove their bridles, and leave the full camp supply of horse feed easily accessible.  They ought to be just fine around camp for at least a week, and if nobody’s back by then they’ll be free to venture further afield and make their own way as best they can.  It is, as Dean gently tells a fretting Cas, the best they can do for the beasts right now without risking their own escape.  This decision made, Castiel insists on one further delay, just long enough for Dean to chew some willow bark, pointing out (no doubt accurately) that they have a long day ahead of them, and the more Dean’s torture-inspired pain is under control, the further and faster they will be able to go.

As they mount up, Cas looks to Dean seriously, “I defer to you,” he says, his tone adopting that same odd formality that characterized it in their first couple discussions, “Seems the first order of business after getting the hell out of here should be delivering you safe back to your kin, and I can’t say as I know precisely where to go to find them, though we know the compound’s somewhere near Lawrence.”

 “Sure enough,” Dean confirms readily, not a single qualm about revealing the location of the Winchester compound to this particular Novak. “‘Bout fifteen miles north by northwest of Lawrence, on the shores of Perry Lake.”

Cas nods seriously.  “It’s a ways.  We’re near on sixty miles out from that now,” Cas tells him, “almost due west.” 

Dean frowns, thinking.  “Near Junction City?”

“Eight miles east of it,” Cas confirms.

“Union Pacific,” Dean says, referencing the transcontinental railroad that runs through Junction City with a flash of insight.  They set up the impromptu camp here for the purposes of the train heist that will no doubt go down in Kansas history, although not for the reasons originally intended.

“Just so,” Cas confirms, and it occurs to Dean that despite less than a week of acquaintance, they’re already communicating with ease in a kind of shorthand he’s only ever had before with folks he’s known for years.  “Moon’s still near full, should be plenty of light after the sun sets. If we ride through most of the night, I know a place we can bed down safely, get some rest, then we’ll cross the river in Topeka and go the rest of the way tomorrow.  Best to do it in a big enough city that even if the family comes asking around, nobody’s likely to remember us.”

“Anybody ever told you you’ve got a head for strategy?” Dean asks, squinting at him, and Cas barks a laugh.

“Many times.  About the only thing I’m good for if you ask my kin,” Cas says, so matter-of-factly that Dean feels his heart clench.  No man should find treatment like Cas did at the hands of his family.

“Well, I ain’t asking them,” Dean tells him decisively as by unspoken agreement they both swing up onto their mounts.  “What do they know anyway?”

Cas doesn’t speak, but there’s a trace of a smile on his face as he wheels Amelia until the setting sun is at his back and kicks her lightly into a canter.

* * *

The supply horse Dean’s riding, a mare by the name of Missouri, turns out to be both sturdier and faster than she looks, and they make better time than Dean anticipated.  Good thing, too, because by the time the position of the moon tells Dean it’s nearing midnight, he can see that Cas is flagging.  No damn wonder, either.  The man’s gotta be at more than thirty hours now with no sleep, and it ain’t like it’s been a relaxing day and a half.

“Cas,” he calls loud enough to be heard over the steady pounding of hoofs, and they both pull up.  “How much further we lookin’ at before bedding down?”  He tries to keep the question casual—some men get awful funny about it if they think you’re implying any kind of weakness, and despite the camaraderie between them, Dean reminds himself that he ain’t known Cas long at all.

Cas frowns, looking up at the moon and then out at the landscape around them.  “Two hours, maybe,” he says.  Dean winces.  “And before you ask, there ain’t anyplace closer I can guarantee we’re like to be safe even if by some chance my family comes looking for us.  And I think I can make it that far.  Not much further, maybe, but that far at least.”

Dean nods, respecting Cas’s assessment of what he’s capable of, and after a brief pause to swig some water, bolt down some jerky, and water the horses at a nearby pond, they mount back up and are off again.

* * *

Dean estimates it’s been just under two hours when Cas motions to him and pulls Amelia up near a nondescript rock formation surrounded by a tangle of scrub brush.  Dean can see that Cas is pale in the glow from the moon, near to swaying on his feet as he dismounts, but the man is made of solid stuff and offers no complaint.  He don’t speak much, and Dean doesn’t press him, leading Amelia through a narrow gap in the scrub brush and apparently trusting Dean to follow with Missouri.  There’s a surprisingly large clearing inside with enough grass for grazing and a small rock pool that seems like it ought to be dry after so many days without rain.  Dean doesn’t have the energy to worry about it himself—he’s gotten more sleep than Cas recently, but nowhere near enough—just spares a moment to be impressed.  “Damn good place to bed down,” he compliments Cas, and Cas laughs a little.

“Nah, this is just for the horses.  Follow me.”  Follow him where, Dean wonders, but a moment later Cas strides to what looks like nothing more than a shadow in the rocks and vanishes into it.  He reappears a few seconds later, grinning as Dean blinks stupidly at him.  “Cave,” he confirms unnecessarily, before heading back to Amelia and pulling off her saddle bags.  He digs through, coming up with a small lantern and a pack of matches he uses to light it, and Dean follows him into the crevice, marveling again and taking a moment to wonder whether Cas hasn’t been idly planning an escape from his family for years, even if he never actually intended on seeing it through before now.

The cave within is no more than eight feet wide but deeper than Dean would’ve expected, vanishing back a ways from which Dean thinks he can maybe hear a soft gurgle of water.  He’s too tired to ask questions, and Cas is damn sure too tired to answer any.  They share some hard tack and a bit more jerky, passing a canteen back and forth in silence, then detach the narrow bedrolls Cas lashed below each of the saddle bags.

He’s pretty sure Cas is asleep a few seconds _before_ his head hits the blanket, but Dean ain’t judging.  He wouldn’t have much time to, anyway, since he’s out no more than fifteen seconds later.

* * *

Sunlight filters in from the narrow crevice they entered through when Dean blinks slowly awake hours later.  A glow from further back in the cave indicates that there may be another entrance that way, but Dean doesn’t worry about that now, intent on checking on the horses.

They’re both right where they were left, Missouri dozing in apparent comfort in the shade of the rocks while Amelia drinks from the pool.  They whicker greetings as Dean appears, and he pauses to scratch both of their muzzles affectionately—when they get back to the compound, Missouri is gonna have the most comfortable retirement any horse has ever gotten—before taking stock of the day.

The angle of the sun tells him it’s gotta be closing in on eleven.  He slept for almost ten hours, and if he’s not mistaken, Cas is likely to sleep longer if Dean lets him.

Dean has every intention of letting him.  It’s the least the man is owed.

After finding another small clearing elsewhere in the scrub brush to relieve himself, Dean ventures back into the cave long enough to grab some more hard tack and jerky before settling down in the clearing, letting himself fully wake up slowly.  He’d kill for some coffee—feels like it’s been years since he’s had a cup—but satisfies himself with looking forward to tomorrow morning, when (barring disaster) he’ll wake in his own bed and can have as many cups of coffee as he pleases.

Well over another hour passes, and Dean is halfway to dozing himself when a shout from inside the cave startles him to alertness.

“Dean!” Cas yells, voice somewhere between concern and panic, and Dean hollers back right away, cursing himself for being so thoughtless as to be gone when he awoke.

“Out here!” He yells, and Cas emerges a moment later, ruffled and scruffy, with an expression of relief on his face.  “Sorry, should’ve hung around in there till you woke up.”

“Nah,” Cas says, stretching, “just thought maybe—”

“They wouldn’t have left you alive if they’d found us,” Dean tells him, and when Cas glances sideways, Dean realizes that wasn’t what he was worried about.  Of course, Cas knew that if the Novaks had come upon them, he’d have heard something or they’d both have died in their sleep together.  No, he thought maybe Dean had woken up and ridden out without him, leaving Cas to wake up alone.  “So,” he says deliberately, “we ought to make it to the compound late afternoon even if we take our time getting moving,” he puts an unnecessary emphasis on the ‘we,’ and sees Cas relax a bit.

“Good.  If y’all’d be so kind to find me a space to lay my bedroll for the evening, I can be out of your hair first thing tomorrow morning,” Castiel tells him, and Dean blinks.

“What, now?”

* * *

Cas grimaces a little.  He asks too much—no matter how much he’s done for Dean, he’s still a Novak and it ain’t fair to ask them to put him up.  “Sorry,” he says, “wasn’t thinking.  I can head on to Perry or Lawrence once you’re squared away, find a bed there for the night before I ride on.”

“No, y’fool,” Dean says, rolling his eyes, and now it’s Cas’s turn to blink in surprise, “that ain’t what I was getting at. Ain’t nobody gonna stop you if you want to move along, find someplace far outside of Kansas to settle down, but you ain’t gotta plan on going anywhere if you don’t want to.”

Cas stares at him, rubbing his eyes hard to try to get some of the sleep out of them.  “I don’t—”

“Listen,” Dean says, in a way that is somehow both compassionate and impatient, “I don’t know how your family worked, though I think I can guess, but you just saved my ass about four times and my life at least once.  You’re family now.  You want a place at the compound, you’ve got one.  You want a spot in the gang, it’s yours.”

Castiel’s pretty sure his jaw is hanging somewhere around his knees, no doubt unflatteringly. “But,” he starts, and then can’t find anywhere to go with it.  If it were someone other than Dean, he’d think he was being messed with, built up only so the rug could be yanked out from under him, but he already knows that is not Dean’s way.  There’s not a deliberately cruel bone in the man’s body. 

“Didn’t I tell you?” Dean says, green eyes twinkling in the sun in a way that is highly distracting, despite Castiel’s current befuddlement.  “Family don’t end in blood, Cas, and you’ve more than earned yourself that title.  Welcome to the Winchesters.”

“I—” Cas again fails to produce coherent speech, but this time it’s because his throat is feeling mighty tight, and there’s a sharp prickle in his eyes that’s almost unfamiliar after so long.  He long since stopped allowing himself the luxury of tears, given his family.

Dean watches him, gaze searching, his brows creasing in compassion.  He seems to hear all of the things Castiel can’t say, see all of the years of abuse and neglect and unwantedness Cas knows must lurk behind his eyes.  If it were pity in his eyes, Cas thinks it might break him just a little more, but it’s not.  It’s empathy.  He steps forward, setting a hand on Cas’s shoulder, then, telegraphing his movements, reaches out his other arm and uses it to gather Castiel in.

Cas cannot remember the last time anyone just hugged him, with no ulterior motive behind it.  Even the dalliances he’s had with men over the years have rarely had enough time for anything as simple or pure as an embrace.

He can feel how stiff he is at first, and the thought crosses his mind that he must smell all kinds of foul, given that he spent much of yesterday shoulder deep in horseshit and sweat, but Dean doesn’t much seem to care about any of that.  He just stands there, arms wrapped firmly around Cas, and the prickling in Castiel’s eyes increases as he tentatively wraps his own arms around Dean in return.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but he feels no pressure from Dean to break the embrace.  Finally, he finds his voice, even if it is strangled with emotion and muffled in Dean’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Castiel tells him, and he can feel Dean’s chuckle vibrate through him, kind instead of mocking.

“You ain’t gotta thank me for a damn thing,” Dean tells him, “you ain’t being offered charity, not that there’s anything wrong with charity when it’s needed.  You earned your place with us, and you’ll be a welcome addition.”

Castiel can’t speak, but he thinks Dean understands anyway.

* * *

It takes a few minutes, but the subtle shuddering of Castiel’s shoulders settles, and a moment later his arms start to loosen around Dean, who takes the hint and releases him from the embrace.

There is a moment as they both pull back, a hesitation with their faces no more than six or eight inches apart.  Castiel’s gaze sweeps his face and Dean is unable to prevent his own gaze from darting down to Castiel’s lips.  They are full, still slightly chapped, and Dean desperately wants to find out if they are as soft as they look.

Now is not the moment, though.  Not when Castiel’s eyes are still a little red-rimmed and shiny, not when Dean has just broken him open and brought some of the damage that’s been done to him by his kin into the light.  If he were to move inward, press his lips against Castiel’s in the way he wants to—the way he’s been wanting to for an embarrassingly long time, considering the circumstances—there’s no guarantee Castiel would feel like he could say no.  Even if he weren’t the recent victim of a man who didn’t much care about the word no, Dean would have no interest in dalliance (or more, because if he’s honest he wants far more than a quick roll in the hay with Castiel) with a man who maybe didn’t feel he could decline.  So, despite the pulse of heat he can feel shudder through him at the way Castiel’s eyes darken a little in response to whatever he sees in Dean’s gaze, Dean makes himself draw back further, stepping over to the small pool to dip his hands in it and rub them together, trying to at least rinse a layer of dust and grime off of them.

“I think the only thing other than my family I’m looking forward to more than coffee is a bath,” he tells Castiel, grimacing a little.  “Don’t know when I’ve been more disgusting.  I probably ought to apologize for makin’ you smell me,” he chuckles, grinning when Castiel rolls his eyes and looks ostentatiously down at himself.

“Dean,” Castiel says dryly, “I smell more like horseshit than actual horseshit does.  I don’t,” he adds, as Dean laughs so hard he has to bend over, “think you have anything to apologize for.  And if you’re so keen for a wash, it might interest you to know that I was actually gonna ask if you minded if we waited long enough to get on the trail for me to take a quick bath myself, put on some clean clothes.”

Dean glances at the pool, then at Cas a little doubtfully.  The water certainly seems to be fresh, but it ain’t near big enough for a grown man to—

He doesn’t even manage to finish the thought before Cas is chuckling.  “Not there,” he says, reaching out a hand toward Dean.

There’s an invitation in it, an offer that is a great deal more than just a hand.  And there’s a hint of vulnerability in the chiseled lines of Cas’s face that makes Dean’s heart clench once again, but it’s not pity that has him reaching out, not merely to take Cas’s offered hand, but to interlace their fingers firmly.

Cas’s lips quirk upward, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and it’s like the sun has come out.  Turning, he heads back for the cave, tugging Dean in his wake.


	16. Chapter 16

**Monday, September 17, 1899**

Castiel knows the moment in which Dean registers what he’s seeing by his soft gasp as Cas tows him another thirty feet back in the cave, until the broad, clear pool of blue water resolves itself in the sunlight that filters in from the gaps in the rock perhaps fifteen feet above.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmurs, and then drops Cas’s hand, and Cas doesn’t have long enough to start fretting over the logistics of both of them bathing before Dean has started tearing off his clothes with the kind of excited abandon of a small child who has decided it’s Naked Time.  “Last one in’s a rotten egg,” Dean announces, and Cas barks a startled laugh and eagerly begins to peel off his own clothes. They are crusted in foulness he doesn’t want to think about, and the fresh ones in his saddlebags sing a siren’s song to him, calling to him just as soon as he can get himself clean.

He could likely have made it in faster if, upon getting his shirt over his head, he wasn’t faced with the sight of Dean shucking his pants, revealing the lighter skin and mouth-watering curve of his ass.

He has seen more than one man without clothes, even laid his hands on some of them, but he has never felt a rush of heat quite like the one that goes through him at the sight laid out before him, Dean Winchester revealed in all his glory, broad shoulders and muscled back pale in the diffuse glow of sunlight from above.

Cas must make some kind of sound, because a moment later Dean turns, dancing eyes landing on Castiel.  There is heat in them, overlaid by a touch of mischief, especially as Castiel can’t quite prevent his eyes from tracking downward to the junction of his thighs and the cock that lays there, soft in a nest of hair two shades darker than that on his head.

Castiel might have stood there gaping for hours if Dean didn’t grin, turning back to the rock pool and crouching to hop in.  “Guess you’re a rotten egg, Cas,” he says with mock sadness, and it finally brings Cas back to himself, earning a snort.

“Pretty sure I smell worse than one,” he mutters, and hurriedly doffs the rest of his clothes, firmly instructing his cock not to embarrass him.

It’s never been the best listener and now’s no different, especially with Dean’s eyes skating shamelessly over Cas, drinking him in with slow appreciation that raises gooseflesh on Castiel’s arms and legs.  He can feel himself start to stiffen, and there’s really no way to conceal the embarrassing speed with which he responds to even a look from Dean except to hurry forward to immerse himself.

The water is pleasantly cool, just as Castiel remembers, and he sighs in pleasure at it.  Dean, perhaps sensing Castiel’s embarrassment, is kind enough to take the opportunity to duck down, quickly immersing himself.  He hisses a little as he comes up, the arch to his back suggesting that the water stings more than a little on the healing weals across his back.  Castiel makes a quick mental note to give him more willow bark before they get into the saddle today, but the pain can’t be too awful, because within seconds Dean settles, beginning to scrub his hands through his hair and over his arms and chest.  In the absence of soap, they will have to make do with the water to cleanse themselves as much as possible; not ideal but a damn sight better than nothing.

“This is a hell of a find, Cas,” Dean says as Castiel mirrors him, dunking himself rapidly and then setting to scrub as best he can.

“I did a fair amount of exploring in in these parts some years back, trying to find excuses to stay away from the compound,” Castiel tells him, “found a lot of interesting places, but this is one of my favorites.”

“Bet you know the lay of western Kansas better than damn near anyone,” Dean speculates, immediately cottoning on to why Castiel would have wanted to steer clear of his kin insofar as possible.

“Might just, at that,” Cas allows, smiling a little, then feeling his face flush as Dean turns away, bending to scrub at his legs and inadvertently—or maybe not—revealing again the lovely shape of his rear below the surface of the clear water.

Cas turns his own back, then, and sets again to scrubbing, trying to ignore his flaming cheeks and again willing his cock to get itself under control.  He might even have succeeded, if he didn’t come up from a second immersion to find Dean no more than a foot before him, green eyes intent in the glow from aloft.

“We maybe ought to be hurrying along to get to the compound, but I gotta tell you, Cas, I’ve been wanting to do this for days now, and I think there’s time enough for it.”  And then, before Castiel has a chance to question it, to wonder whether he’s still asleep and dreaming, Dean Winchester is closing the distance between them, cupping a hand around the back of his neck, leaning in. 

He hesitates, lips no more than an inch or two from Castiel’s, an invitation rather than a compulsion.  He’s giving Cas the chance to pull away.  The idea that Castiel might want to is practically laughable, not that Cas has any desire to laugh at the moment.  Instead he pushes forward, closing that last bit of space to press his lips against Dean’s.

The kiss is light, almost gentle, an introduction and invitation between them, a question asked and answered.  There is no tongue, just the brush of lips together softly, once, twice, a third time.

Dean pulls back then, and Cas has only a moment to worry that somehow he’s gone and messed this up, just like that, before there’s even a chance to explore what this is between them.

“I wanna be clear,” Dean says, his face serious, “that what happens or doesn’t happen here has no bearing on your place with us.  You don’t owe me shit, and you can get up and walk away now or at any point without jeopardizing—”

“Dean,” Castiel says firmly, despite how much his heart is swelling with something it is probably too soon to call love, but that feels like it could get there real easily.

“Yeah?” Dean says, and he’s trying not to show it but there’s a hint of anxiety behind the one word.

“Shut the fuck up and kiss me.” Cas tells him.

Grinning, Dean leans forward to oblige.

This kiss bears no resemblance to the previous one.  Dean’s mouth crashes against his with purpose this time, parting Castiel’s lips and licking into his mouth with a clear intent that Castiel finds himself more than on board with.

Dean’s hands are somehow everywhere, one wrapped firmly around Castiel’s shoulders to cup the back of his head, the other sliding along Cas’s side to squeeze his hip.

Cas gets with the program mighty quick now that he knows they’re both on the same page, his own hands starting their own exploration, mapping the curves and planes of Dean’s back and sides, skating over the muscles of his chest and then the hint of softness at his belly.  Dean gasps into the kiss as Castiel’s hand ventures a little further down, finding the cock he had but a moment to admire earlier, no longer quite so soft.  It is thickening and lengthening, hot with the thrum of blood that stiffens it further in Castiel’s hand.

He gives it a firm stroke, not sure whether it’s the velvety hot hardness of it or the broken groan he earns from Dean that causes his own cock to twitch where it hangs heavy between his thighs.  Dean begins to reach for it, and Castiel uses his free hand to swat him away, hurrying to pull back at the way Dean stills.

“Believe me,” Cas breathes, his own voice rough with wanting, “I want it, but—let me feel you, first?”  It’s somehow both plea and demand and Dean responds to it, his rebuffed hand lifting to settle with the other around Cas’s shoulders, a wordless capitulation, an immediate surrender to Castiel’s desires.

The ease with which Dean lets him take the lead, if only for now, sends another surge of heat through Castiel.  He has so rarely been offered any power, any ability to decide much of anything for himself, let alone anyone else.  The readiness with which Dean defers to him is heady, a sensation Castiel thinks he could get used to, although he’s just as eager to see what Dean makes of him when given free rein.

For now, though, Castiel intends to take full advantage of Dean’s willingness, and he slides his free hand around the back of Dean’s neck, pulling him into another scorching kiss as the hand around Dean’s cock sets to work again.  He strokes first with a loose fist before playing fingertips along it, listening closely for the things which earn Dean’s sharp indrawn breaths, music to Castiel’s ears.  When his fingertips find the sensitive spot on the underside beneath the head, Dean actually _whimpers_ into his mouth, his back arching to press his hips harder into Castiel’s hand, a plea and a demand.

Despite his desire to really take his time with Dean, Cas finds himself unable to resist the wordless urging, and he wraps his fingers again around Dean’s cock and begins a firm, quicker stroke, the cool water easing what might otherwise be uncomfortable friction from Castiel’s rough hand.  He likely wouldn’t have taken any other liberties, but when his other hand, unable to resist exploring, slides down Dean’s chest and over his hip to skate lightly across the curve of one buttock, Dean’s cock twitches in his hand and his mouth drops open a little more.

They’ve neither time nor the supplies to really explore what this reaction brings to mind in Castiel, but neither is he willing to ignore this evidence of desire.  He speeds the stroking of Dean’s cock as his other hand tightens, grasping a handful of Dean’s ass before letting his fingertips creep inward until they sweep down the crease, teasing across the knot of muscle without attempting entry.

When they have both time and something slicker than water at their disposal, Castiel will really give Dean’s ass the attention it both deserves and clearly wants, because just the press of a thumb in pantomime of imminent penetration is enough to push Dean over the edge.  He groans, deep and rough, his cock pulsing and jerking as he pulls his mouth away to bury his face in the crook of Castiel’s shoulder.  Cas works him through it, stroking with one hand and pressing lightly with the fingers of the other, until Dean shudders into stillness, his breathing loud and harsh in the quiet of the cave.

Castiel’s fingers fall away, giving Dean a chance to collect himself, but Dean doesn’t seem to want much of one.  He gives himself no more than thirty seconds to enjoy the glow of release before his arms, slung loosely around Castiel’s shoulders, come to life, his hands shifting to grasp Cas’s upper arms, bearing him backward into the edge of the pool.  Before Cas knows it, Dean’s hands have fallen to grip his thighs, and he lifts, deftly seating Cas on the edge of the pool.  Cas inhales sharply, Dean’s lips curving into a grin as he gazes up, then leans down to nudge his nose against Castiel’s cock, which has been near painfully hard since before he swatted Dean’s hand away from it.

Cas stills for a moment, forcing the words out.  “Are you sure you—”

“I’m sure,” Dean says, not letting him finish.  “I been wondering what you taste like since—well, maybe since that first night, and having you wash the taste of Michael out of my mouth is just a bonus.”

Castiel surely won’t be the one to remove Dean’s autonomy again by insisting that he should wait just because the last time a cock was in his mouth it was under very different circumstances.  He just nods, then groans and leans backward onto his elbows as Dean wastes no time, letting his tongue out to lick over the head, one of his hands coming to grasp the base of Castiel’s cock, holding it steady so that Dean can slide his lips down and around him.

“Jesus fuck,” Cas breathes, and he ain’t concerned about taking that name in vain because he’s pretty sure even Jesus himself would have a hard time controlling himself under the ministration of Dean Winchester’s mouth and hands.

Dean is skilled and sets about to prove it, humming approval at Castiel’s blaspheming and earning yet another curse as the vibrations shock through Castiel’s dick.  Cas leans up again, twining his fingers in Dean’s hair, not seeking to guide, merely holding on for dear life, another groan leaking out of him.  The sight of Dean, enthusiastically working his cock between mouth and hand as his other hand curls around Castiel’s hip to hold him steady—the soft wet sounds as he sucks—Castiel would be embarrassed about how soon he feels himself approach the edge if not for the fact that Dean didn’t last particularly long under his hands either.

Castiel hasn’t laid hands on himself in weeks, and it’s been a damn sight longer than that since anyone else has done so, but his body remembers the way of things just fine.  In the moments before his climax hits, Cas grunts a warning, “Dean—gonna—” but Dean merely squeezes Castiel’s hip and hums again in approval, in welcome, and the thought that this incredible man wants to taste Castiel’s seed shoves him headlong over the edge.  Cas shouts, fingers tightening uncontrollably in Dean’s hair as he spills himself.  Dean doesn’t seem to mind, squeezing Castiel’s hip again as he swallows.

The sight is so powerfully erotic that it pulls another pulse and a moan from Castiel, both of which Dean accepts as his due.  Not until Castiel is softening does Dean draw back, letting the cock slide from between his lips with a soft, wet sound.

It’s Cas’s harsh breathing that echoes around the space now, and only as the warmth of the climax begins to fade from him does he become aware of the cold, hard stone beneath his ass.  Dean looks up at him, a self-satisfied smile hovering on his lips that makes Castiel dimly wish they had the leisure to lay each other out and explore further, to really take their time with one another.

Soon, he tells himself, there will be that leisure and more, if Castiel finds himself as welcome as Dean seems certain he will.  To his surprise, Castiel finds that he believes it—that if Dean says Castiel has a place with him, with his family, he means it and will see to it.

It’s a close thing, but somehow, the realization is even better than the remnants of pleasure still sizzling through Castiel’s nerve endings.

* * *

They are slower and lazier than they have any right to be in the wake of their shared pleasure, trading languid kisses as they venture out into the clearing to dry off in the sun.  Soon enough, though, Castiel is digging through his bulging saddle bags to come up with clean clothes.  His own fit Dean well enough, the shirt straining a bit across the shoulders and the pants perhaps an inch too short, but it’s better than putting back on the filthy, stained clothing he’s been wearing for near on a week.  Despite no desire to preserve them, they pack away their filthy clothes, unwilling to leave behind such clear evidence that they were here in case someone comes after them.

A final sweep through the cave and the clearing reveals no telltale items left behind, and by the angle of the sun, it’s not yet two as they swing up into their saddles.  There’s still more than five hours of daylight left to them, and with both they and the horses well-rested, they make damn good time.  By 4:30, they make it across the Kansas River in Topeka, and Castiel can see Dean’s excitement and eagerness mounting as they get nearer to the Winchester compound.

It’s hard for him to imagine what it might be like to feel such yearning for one’s kin, but the shade of wistfulness he feels does nothing to dim his pleasure in Dean’s happiness.  They pull up to water the horses around six, what can’t be more than an hour from Perry Lake, and despite his certainty that Dean would not lead him astray, Castiel broaches the topic one last time.  “Should I be worried about announcing myself as a Novak?” he wonders.  “Especially knowing who killed your cousin and took you hostage.  They won’t think I’m there to—”

“Cas,” Dean interrupts, his eyes laughing in a way that’s still somehow kind, “I’m vouching for you.  I promise you ain’t got nothing to worry about.  Remember, we already call a Novak family, and she’ll tell you herself how readily she was welcomed.”

Castiel’s eyes widen.  He’s been so caught up in events that for a time, he forgot entirely that when Anna ran off with Charlene Bradbury, she would of course have ended up at the Winchester compound.  The realization—that he’s not devoid of family, that it’s not only Dean’s kin who awaits him at the Winchester compound, but the only kin of Castiel’s who was ever kind to him—he finds that for the second time in a day, his eyes are prickling.

Dean reaches over and squeezes Castiel’s hand, his eyes and smile gentle.  “If your face is anything to go by,” he tells Cas, “she’ll be right pleased to see you, too.”

Cas clears his throat and dips his head in a nod, suddenly finding that he’s at least as eager as Dean to get to that compound.  It’s been near on four years since he last laid eyes on Anna, and the idea of seeing her again, of being welcomed not only by strangers but by family—it has Cas swinging up into his saddle even more quickly than Dean does.

Grinning at his eagerness, Dean wheels Missouri around and sets off, taking the lead this time as he knows exactly where they’re headed.  As he rides, the warm and solid weight of his beloved Amelia beneath him, Dean, dark blonde hair gleaming in the light of the sinking sun at his side, and the nearness of Anna on his mind, it occurs to Castiel that there’s more than one kind of family, and maybe he’s going to do okay at building one for himself, a piece at a time.

* * *

The sun can’t be more than twenty minutes from kissing the horizon behind them when Dean sees the gleam of the lake, the tiny buildings of the compound grouped around its shore in the distance.  He slows Missouri enough for his yell to be heard by Castiel.  “Take a look,” he calls, feeling the weight of an impossibly long week and the still lingering possibility of his own imminent death fall away once and for all.  His body hurts in a hundred small ways, two long days’ ride bringing the pain of what must be dozens of healing bruises and abrasions into sharp relief, but he can’t bring himself to care or hardly notice.

He’s _home._ Cas examines the sight of the compound as it grows before them, face solemn but the trepidation Dean had easily been able to see growing, if not gone, greatly decreased.  Something about the reminder that Anna was there—that he had kin waiting for him, even if she didn’t yet know he was coming, seems to have shaken something loose in Castiel, and Dean thinks that maybe he will relax into his welcome in the Winchester gang easily enough once he sees the way of things.

He can’t help but nudge Missouri from the easy canter into a gallop, and he hears Castiel’s laugh as he pushes Amelia to keep up.  As they reach the outskirts of the compound, Dean lets the horse slow, neck craning toward the paddocks, searching, searching—and there.  There she is.

In a small paddock often used for horses recovering from illness or injury, Baby grazes lazily, a bandage that must be Benny’s work covering the bullet wound on her flank.  She gleams in the golden glow of the sun, whole and healthy but for a wound that must already be on its way to healed, and Dean swallows past the lump in his throat, sending up a prayer of gratitude.  Just like Dean, she found her way home.

There will be time later to go to her, to bury his face in her uninjured flank and stroke his hands through her silken mane, to murmur endearments as she noses at the side of his head.  Now, though—now he can see a few figures turned toward him and Cas, necks craning, and he can’t wait any longer.  He kicks Missouri into a trot, bypassing the place at which he’d normally dismount and tend to the horses before heading further in, through the outbuildings and toward the miniature version of a village square, the broad stretch of grass surrounded by cabins at the center of the compound.

He can see a couple of hands on holsters as he and Cas approach, and he’s unwilling to risk surviving the week only to fall to a bullet shot by family who hadn’t yet recognized him and feared assault.  He pulls Missouri up just before he hits shouting distance, sliding off her back and nodding to Cas to do the same.  A face pokes out of an outbuilding, and Dean squints, then grins, recognizing his 14-year-old cousin Henry.

“Hank!” He calls, and Henry, whose face was screwed up suspiciously, startles.

“Dean?” he yells, and then, not waiting for confirmation, “Dean!!”  He comes out of the supply shed at a run, but rather than barreling at Dean, he’s off in the opposite direction, aiming to be the messenger who brings glad tidings.  Dean can hear him faintly, hollering as he bolts past the rest of the outbuildings and into the central clearing.  “Dean!” he’s yelling, “It’s Dean, y’all, he’s here!”

Dean glances sideways to see Cas, brow raised and lips twitching.  Dean shrugs.  “Imagine being fourteen and gettin’ to be the one to deliver that kind of news,” he says, and Cas grins, nodding.

Dean’s own steps speed up as they pass through outbuildings, deserted in the early evening as most everyone must be eating or cleaning up from dinner.  The good smells of home cooking permeate as he gets nearer in and his mouth waters a little, but he couldn’t be less focused on his stomach and how little true nutrition it’s had in days.

He hurries past the small chapel and comes out twenty yards from the outer circle of cabins, but he keeps himself to a respectable pace as doors start to slam open, right up until one of them spills Sam at the same moment another one coughs up Charlie.

Then he starts to run.

* * *

Castiel was honestly surprised at how well Dean managed to maintain composure.  It’s been clear all along how much he loves his family, and to be reunited with them after such an ordeal, after being so certain of, so resigned to his own death—it’s a moment few are likely to get in their lives.

Dean’s told him enough of his family, of the way of things, that when he starts to run, Castiel can guess why.  He watches, following at a more sedate pace, as Dean barrels forward, slamming headlong into a tall man with shaggy hair—that will be Sam, he thinks—and then opening one arm as a diminutive redhead flings herself at him.  Castiel does a double take for a second, but no, the hair color isn’t quite right.  That must be Charlie.  Cas is probably the only one who notices the way Dean flinches as Sam’s arms tighten around his back, but however much the pressure against the healing wounds must pain him, it is clearly unimportant when measured against his joy in the reunion.  The three of them hold on tight, rocking together, and as Cas nears he can hear excited speech, their words tumbling over and across one another, a symphony of “we thought you weres” and “how did yous” and “I didn’t think I’ds” and above all, over and over “Thank Gods.”

He hangs back just a little as other Winchesters start to gather, earning some curious looks but none that seem overtly hostile.  He came in with Dean, and it seems that earns him immediate forbearance.

Dean breaks away after long moments, and his face is wet, but no wetter than that of his brother or his adoptive sister.  He swipes a hand across his cheeks, but there’s no shame in the action, no family member here who sneers at him to act like a man.

The energy here couldn’t be more different than what Castiel is used to, and he basks in it even without any true assurances other than Dean’s that he can claim a piece of it for his own.  Even if Dean is wrong, and there isn’t a place for him here, he will have been enriched just by being present for these moments.

Soon a burly, bearded man pushes through the small crowd, grasping Dean in a hug that pulls him momentarily off the ground, and Dean laughs and pounds him on the back, before turning to a man twice as scrawny as the last one was broad, who limps toward them with the use of a cane.  Dean’s relieved exhale shudders through him.  “Garth!” He yells, and closes the distance to wrap the thin man in a careful hug.  They are laughing, so many of them, the joy suffusing the space so thickly that even Cas has to swallow past a lump in his throat.

He waits quietly, no desire to speed up or interrupt Dean’s reunions, but it seems Dean has something else in mind. Freeing one arm from around the kid who had gone running to spread the news—Henry, Cas thinks?—he reaches behind him, groping outward, beckoning Castiel.

Cas goes, stepping forward a bit hesitantly, and the crowd backs away a little, making space for him to come, to step up near Dean’s shoulder.

“Who you got there?” Charlie asks, looking Cas up and down, and Dean turns his head to look at Cas.  Again, not for the first time, Cas is caught up in that green gaze, even more beautiful now for the way it sparkles with joy and relief.

“Oh my God,” comes a soft voice from the nearest porch, and everyone turns to look.  Another diminutive redhead stands there, eyes huge and face shocked.  “Cas?” she says, as if she doesn’t quite believe it, and Cas nods, swallowing hard.  “Cas,” she says again, and she comes down the steps, coming forward until she stands before him, hands reaching up to touch his face as if to prove to herself it’s really him. 

“Anna,” he says, voice a little rougher than usual, and then she is in his arms, and he wraps her in close, rocking from side to side.  It’s new—there wasn’t much affection tolerated back at the Novak compound, and hugs were not really a thing they did.  The Winchesters must be rubbing off on Anna, and Cas can’t say that he minds, with the warm weight of her in his arms, the sweet smell of her hair in his nostrils.

Cas can hear the smile in Dean’s voice as he confirms it.  “Yeah,” he says, “Y’all, this is Cas Novak.”  A murmur goes through the crowd, confusion and speculation, but Cas hears none of the accusation and hostility he would’ve expected.  “He’s Anna’s cousin,” Dean adds, probably unnecessarily, as Cas and Anna break apart, both laughing a little.  Dean steps forward then, and just like that, in full view of his whole family, reaches out and twines his fingers with Castiel’s, pulling him in to Dean’s side.  Dean glances around, then raises his voice so the stragglers further out can hear just as well.  “This is Cas,” he says again, “he’s the reason I made it home, and he’s with me.  Any questions?”

There’s a flurry of introductions and rapid-fire explanations that eats up the next few minutes, and Cas seems more than a little startled to find himself wrapped in tight embraces, first from Sam and then from Charlie.  They all turn at the sound of a high-pitched shout from the porch of the largest cabin.  

“Yeah!” the little boy yells, “I got a question,” Dean grins a little at the sight of Adam, his 5-year-old half-brother by his father’s new wife, Kate.

* * *

“Yeah!” a small sandy-haired boy pipes up, “I got a question!”  Cas can feel himself tense a little—he’s only a child, but sometimes that’s all it takes to start a cascade that might lead to disaster.  Dean clearly senses his nervousness, because he again entangles his fingers with Castiel’s.  He must not be too worried, because there is laughter in his voice as he answers.

“Oh yeah?” Dean asks, squeezing Cas’s hand.  “What’s your question, Adam?”

 “Dinner’s ready, and Ma wants to know if you’re hungry,” the small boy says, and the tension goes out of Cas as he feels a chuckle thrum through his chest.  Not exactly the disaster he feared, then.

“Starving,” Dean tells him, and as Adam clatters back into the house to pass along the message, Dean turns back to Cas.  “Dinner time,” he says, and then smiles with such warmth Castiel feels the breath catch in his chest, even before he hears words he’d never dreamed anyone would aim at him, no matter how long he lived.  Dean leans forward to brush a kiss against Cas’s cheek, and then his breath comes soft in Cas’s ear, offering up those precious words like a lifeline that Castiel seizes on, clinging to, feeling a brand new kind of hope come alive in his chest. 

“Welcome home,” Dean says, and Castiel believes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh I did it!! This DCRB was my first solo challenge fic (I collaborated with a friend--who is now my darling wife--for the 2016 DCBB). I hope y'all enjoyed reading it as much as I loved writing it. If you enjoyed it, _please_ go give some love to my artist, the magnificent [oh-cassie](https://oh-cassie.tumblr.com/), because not only was her artwork unbelievably gorgeous, without that artwork and her prompt, this fic would never exist at all. For those of you who don't know too much about challenges, that's what the Dean/Cas Reverse Bang is--the artists make their art first, and then authors claim it and create a fic based off of that, plus whatever prompt the artist provides. This entire work exists thanks to the brilliant and kind of twisted (I say that with love, oh-cassie) mind of my incredible artist. Please, please show her some love. She deserves it.
> 
> I said it at the beginning, but it bears repeating. I had three magnificent betas on this fic, but only one alpha, beta and one-woman cheering section. Please give it up for [Dangerousnotbroken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken) this woman not only allowed me to dive into a challenge that started the day before our wedding and posted two and a half weeks before I moved internationally three thousand miles to finally live together, she ENCOURAGED it, and then she nudged, encouraged, bullied, and shooed me through the writing of this fic. It's not so much that it wouldn't be what it is without her as that it wouldn't exist at all without her. She is my muse, she is my alpha reader, she is my beta reader, she is my best friend, she is my cheerleader, she is my wife. I love you, babe. Thank you for all the things.


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